


Collateral Damage

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Game Theory [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Autistic Sherlock, Drug Use, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Heavy Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 51,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between The Great Game and The Scandal in Belgravia, both Sherlock and John have to deal with the collateral emotional damage that comes after Moriarty's pool-side revelation that their relationship was a weakness that could, and would, be exploited. Mycroft Holmes meddles, as usual, and it all goes to hell rather quickly. 25 chapters</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Collateral damage occurs when something incidental to the intended target is damaged during an attack. When used in conjunction with military operations, it can refer to the incidental destruction of civilian property and non-combatant casualties.

________________________________________  
Prologue  
________________________________________

"Sorry, wrong day to die." The Consulting Criminal sounded a bit disappointed.

"Oh, did you get a better offer?" the Consulting Detective asked through slightly gritted teeth.

The retort, "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock" came echoing off the pool side tiles, and Moriarty departed nonchalantly, calling the snipers off with a click of his fingers, before continuing the conversation on his mobile phone.

This time, Watson took a moment to gather his thoughts before getting to his feet. They had been fooled once before into thinking that Moriarty had departed. Sherlock's laser stare was still fixed on the door through which his nemesis was departing, the browning automatic still firmly gripped in both of his hands. He lowered it only when the dancing red dots on them disappeared, and he could hear the slam of doors from the bleachers above the pool. The snipers were gone.

John came up behind him and said, "well, that's one time I am glad someone left their mobile phone on during a performance." John's voice shook, and was a little wheezy, as the adrenaline took its toll. Sherlock did not reply, just stared down at the tiles, as if lost in thought. Then he suddenly roused himself, pocketed his gun and walked out of the side door, without a word or backwards glance at Watson.

By the time John caught up with him, Sherlock was halfway down the street, talking on his phone to Lestrade. "…and tell the bomb squad to treat the anorak carefully; I’m not sure that it was actually armed, and I don't think that Moriarty would detonate it just for effect at this stage, but it would be wise to take proper precautions." He ended the call without saying goodbye, and John grabbed him by the forearm to stop him from striding off. Sherlock focused his grey green eyes on John's face, with the forensic intensity usually reserved for corpses. "You're bleeding somewhere, I can smell it. Are you alright?"

John shrugged his shoulders, ignoring the pain in his ribs. "Okay, just a bit bruised and bashed. And one of the snipers liked a bit of knife play. But, it's nothing I can't handle with the first aid kit back at Baker Street." 

Reassured, Sherlock turned away, heading back to the main road.

"Hold on Sherlock, shouldn't we wait around for the Yard team to get here?"

"Hardly, John. This doesn't even qualify as a crime scene as there has been no crime."

"What about the USB stick with the missile defence plans on it? Moriarty may have tossed it in the pool, but it's still top secret. Mycroft will not be amused, by the way."

"Oh, don't be silly, John, I was not about to compromise state security. I told you back at Baker Street that I had returned the real memory stick to Mycroft. What's at the bottom of the pool, and now ruined, was just a plausible imitation, a copy that was good enough to pass rapid scrutiny, but with all the interesting bits altered to make them useless."

"Is that why Moriarty tossed them into the water? He would have figured that you would have done that?" The doctor pulled his thin brown cardigan around him, as the cold on the dark street was starting to get to him. The coat had been left behind, tangled with the bomb vest. "Is it sort of a 'he knows you know, and you know he knows, so both of you play along?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but strode away. John ran to catch up and then fell into step beside him as the pair came to the main road and they started looking for a cab. It was half past midnight, and on a Saturday night, it would be challenging to find one that wasn't already occupied.

After the fourth one passed by with its top light off and passengers in the back, John wondered aloud. "Do you think it's too late to catch the last tube?"

Once again Sherlock did not reply, because he had spotted the welcoming glow of a yellow light coming down the street, and raised his arm. "Taxi!" His deep baritone carried across the distance and the empty cab obligingly pulled up to the pavement. He opened the passenger door and gestured for John to get in, shutting it behind the shorter man. Then the detective leaned in through the half opened front window to instruct the driver. "Take him to 221b Baker Street."

John sat up from where he had sunk back into the comforting seat. "What, Sherlock, aren't you coming with me? We need to talk."

The detective's answer was delivered in a flat tone. "No, I need to walk off the adrenaline; see… you…. later." To stop any protests from John, Sherlock simply said "Drive on" to the cabbie, and walked away.


	2. Reaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now separated from Sherlock, in the back of a black cab going to Baker Street, John tries to make sense of the events at the pool.

"Typical, bloody typical!" John muttered. His arms were crossed and mouth set in a thin-lipped scowl. Despite his nonchalance in front of Sherlock, his ribs were hurting fiercely and the slice across the back of his neck was uncomfortable, too. But, more than that, he was just annoyed at being left alone by the detective.

"You say something, mate?" asked the cab driver.

"No, nothing- just pissed off, that's all."

"Well, better pissed off than pissed, is what I always say," the cabbie replied. "That's why I stopped to pick you two up- didn't look like you were drunk. Saturday nights are hell on the cab; just last week I had a £100 clean up as a result of taking pity on a bunch of girls. Turns out they were on a hen night, sloppy drunks."

Just John's luck to get a talkative taxi driver when he really needed some peace and quiet to think. Actually, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea not having to share the taxi with Sherlock. He'd probably be in his usual non-communicative fugue, shutting down any chance to actually process together what the two of them had just endured. At least without him in the cab, John could focus on his own thoughts, rather than trying to second guess what his flatmate's petulant silence meant.

The taxi driver was determined to have a conversation. "Got any kids?"

John wondered if a 35 year old consulting detective flatmate qualified.

The driver took John's lack of reply as a willingness to continue the conversation. "My daughter is just at that dangerous age- you know, young enough to be taking risks without realising the consequences. That's why I stopped for them girls last Saturday; who knows, in a couple of years I'll be worrying about how my Trish is going to get home after a night out, if a taxi will stop or just drive on by."

John just closed his eyes and tuned out the garrulous driver. He's probably bored with not having anyone to talk to, because his passengers are all wrapped up in each other, where they are going, or where they've been. He started to think about his own Saturday night's events. If they'd shared the cab, John would have wanted to tell Sherlock how he had been abducted on his way to Sarah's, and what Moriarty had done and said to him.

John's eyes suddenly snapped open. Oh my God! I haven't even thought about Sarah; she will be really annoyed at me for not showing up or contacting her! He reached for his phone, and then realised with dismay that he didn't have it; it was in the black coat that he had been wearing when he left Baker Street. Moriarty had switched that coat for the hooded anorak, which was much bigger than John's usual size, so it could accommodate the bomb harness and the earpiece wiring.

John groaned- yet another phone or item of clothing of his destroyed because of his work with Sherlock. He seemed to be forever having to buy new clothes to replace those torn or soiled beyond repair when the two of them were crawling through the muck of a crime scene. He'd gone through three phones since moving in with Sherlock; the one his sister had given him ended up at the bottom of the Thames after one memorable chase after a suspect.

John would have to wait until he got back to the flat, send Sarah an apology by e mail from his laptop and hope that she read it before she left for work in the morning. He shivered, missing his coat even more. He opened his eyes long enough to find and flick on the taxi's compartment heater switch, before settling back.

He knew that the shivering was probably a sign of shock as much as a response to the cool evening. His medical training meant John could tell you all the physical consequences of the kind of experience he had just gone through. Extreme fear for one's own life and that of one's comrades was something he had to deal with in Afghanistan, both as a doctor helping others who survived battlefield terrors, and as a wounded casualty himself. The shakes that caught him in his abdomen now were probably due to both shock and stress, the physical aftermath of nearly being blown up, as well as the horror of being used as a walking bomb working to Moriarty's agenda.

John was trying to come to terms with what happened in the minutes before Sherlock arrived at the pool. On his way to Sarah's, he had turned the corner from Baker Street and walked straight into a punch that decked him. The next thing he knew he was trussed up like a chicken on the floor of the locker room at the pool, looking through blurred vision at a dark haired man in an exquisite navy suit, kneeling down beside him with a puzzled expression on his face.

"I don't get it. I mean, what does he see in you? You are so…. ordinary." The vaguely familiar man stood up and flicked his hand in dismissal at John. "Just look at those clothes; you look like a refugee from an Oxfam shop," he sneered. "How on earth can he even stand to be seen in your company?"

Despite having his arms tied behind him, John had a soldier's instincts, so he struggled up to a sitting position, and took his first proper look at the Irishman. "You!" He couldn't contain his surprise.  
"Hello!" replied Moriarty in a sing song voice. "Yes, it's me. Jim Moriarty from Bart's IT." He gave John a maniacal grin. "I just couldn't resist sneaking in that day to take a look at the great Sherlock Holmes in his natural habitat. He was so cute in his purple shirt and that lovely suit, playing with his microscope, trying to ignore me. Did you like my gay gear? I did it just for him. Oh course, it cost me dear little Miss Molly's affection, but then she was getting tiresome anyway and had served her purpose."

He bent down to scrutinise the prisoner, his face only inches from John's. "Are you a pet, then? I think more of a dog than a cat. Oh yes, a faithful companion, following at heel, doing his master's bidding, all with such drooling devotion. Does he keep you to be amused by your ordinariness? Do you enjoy being made to look like such a fool? "

"What do you want with Sherlock?" John replied. He tried to be as calm as he could, not responding to the taunts. But, he couldn't help but voice the question that had been nagging him ever since the first bomb challenge had been sent to Sherlock "Why are you playing this game with him? People's lives are at stake. Innocent people, eleven of them died in that flat you blew up. What kind of a monster are you?"

"Ooo, say that again, I do so like it when someone recognises my genius for what it is!"

John just stared, his jaw set. He held his tongue, rather than stoke the psychopath's ego.

Moriarty sneered. "No, I thought not, no glimmer of intelligence in that little blonde head of yours". He tapped John's head, much to the doctor's dismay.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation. After all, it will help you play a better role in the drama that is about to unfold here." Moriarty started to smile. "I get just as bored as your consulting detective, you know. No one out here to play with, no one who can really challenge me. It's just all too…easy. Dull." He stood up and stepped away, taking big lumbering steps with arms outstretched like some sort of Frankenstein monster, his face pulled into a grimace. "Everyone just plods along."

He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at John, the sinister smile returning. "And then I see a teensy glimmer, a shimmer of light. Someone else out there who might just be clever enough to play at my level. So, I thought it would be fun to see just how smart he is. And, oh, joy of joys, it turns out he likes to play as much as I do! And he is good, too-really extraordinary, a worthy opponent. Did you hear his answer- 'The Van Buren supernova'. He was so excited, I think he just about had an orgasm at his own cleverness. Thatta boy, Sherlock."

Moriarty came back to face John, pulling his chin up to look him in the eyes. "Of course, I can understand your infatuation with him. I mean, really, he is just so….gorgeous, isn't he? And amazing, too- all that brainpower just gagging to show off how clever he is. A bit posh for you, I would think, public school, Cambridge, smart suits, all that rank and privilege". At this point the sneer returned as he looked intently at John. "Just a long way out of your league, isn't he, soldier boy?" He released John's chin, who scowled at him.

"Of course, I've known him longer than you have, Johnny. I've been watching him from the shadows for years. Had my eye on him ever since he spotted my mistake with Carl Powers' shoes. I wanted a trophy; he realised the significance of the trainers. I am just …SO…lucky that he was hopeless at getting anyone to listen."

"Is that what you do, Johnny boy? Are you a listener? Do you stroke his ego?" Moriarty returned to John's side, and suddenly shoved him hard. John's tied hands meant there was no way to stop himself from falling over onto the hard concrete floor with a grunt.

"Or maybe you stroke something else? Are you two lovers? Are you such a beast in bed that Sherlock is willing to overlook your mental deficiencies?" Moriarty knelt beside him, looked pointedly at John's crotch, and then began stroking the soldier's face, in a grotesque parody of a lover's touch. As the doctor struggled to sit back up, Moriarty then put his hand on John's thigh.

John had taken enough. He gathered his saliva and spat at the Irishman, who froze as the spit hit his face. For a moment, nothing happened. Then Moriarty stood up and just roared with laughter. As he took out a silk handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his face, he giggled. "Oh, the pet dog has a bite! This will be fun! I thought the best part would be winding up Sherlock, making him think that his pet was in fact his archenemy. Now I will have the pleasure of WATCHING YOU DIE!" He shouted the last of these words at the top of his lungs and snapped his fingers.

Three men came into the locker room, and seized John. "Let him know how …displeased I am with his little gesture", Moriarty said quietly, as he left the room. One of the three men kicked him hard, twice, and John felt a rib (or was it two?) crack. While he gasped at the pain, the kicker pulled a gun and put it against the back of his head, then stood off as the other two untied him. Any momentary thought of escape went out of John's mind, as he struggled to find enough breath left in his lungs to stop himself from passing out.

John kept himself as still as possible, whilst trying to assess his chances against the three men. All three in similar black anonymous clothing. The one holding the gun on him took a military stance. Hard eyes trained on John, no question of him being distracted from the task at hand. How much of that deduction was based on John's army training and how much came from being in Sherlock's company, John would have found difficult to explain.

The one holding the gun seemed to be in charge. Taller than John, but not as tall as Sherlock, who had become John's yardstick for measuring height. Early forties, John guessed, but definitely military trained. Sandy coloured hair, a bit long, so discharged for a while. Mercenary? There was something menacing in his expression and stance. Used to combat, possibly hostage situations? Maybe Paras, or ex-SAS?

"Take off your coat." It was said in a non-descript accent, hard to place in any particular English region. A man used to giving orders, and having them obeyed. The authority behind the voice was backed up by the Glock automatic he held on John, so the doctor complied. In short order, he was gagged and blindfolded, then he could feel a harness being strapped onto his chest, then his arms forced through the sleeves of a coat. Anorak, he corrected, when he felt the fake fur collar against his neck.

"Yeah, you're the fifth pip, little soldier". The gunman's voice suggested his grin. "And this time the boss is going to be there in the room to have his fun face-to-face with your friend. Let's add a little red to this scene." John's head was wrenched down, exposing the back of his neck from the anorak. Then he felt a sharp cold metal object being dragged across the bare skin. He hissed from the sudden pain, and felt a warm trickle of blood start to flow down from the wound.

The taxi suddenly braked and the cabbie cursed. "Bloody idiots!"

Jolted back to the present, John snapped his eyes open and grabbed the handrail by his left to balance himself as the cab swerved and dived into a fast moving jam of cars. They were at the roundabout at Hyde Park Corner, about 15 minutes from Baker Street. Even at this late hour, the swirling traffic from Knightsbridge and St James proved challenging. Once they safely moved onto Park Lane, he relaxed back onto the seat and let his memories of the night return. The back of his neck still stung, but his fingers probing over his shoulder hit crusted blood, so he realised that it wasn't deep enough to be serious.

John had been dragged by the three men from the locker room to a side entrance to the pool, where his gag and blindfold were removed. A few minutes later, Moriarty joined them again.

"Show time, Johnny Boy! Sherlock's just coming up the street. You know the drill. I whisper sweet nothings through this earpiece, and you repeat exactly what I say. No deviations, now! My men are going to be in the bleachers above the pool, watching your every move. They are trained snipers, so don't think that you or your master can escape. I'm going to be at the deep end, how appropriate is that? Just remember, I can detonate the bomb at any point. Of course once Sherlock arrives, you won't want to do anything that might make my finger twitch, will you? It would be SO ironic if you were to be the cause of his death, wouldn't it?

As the taxi passed Marble Arch, he closed his eyes and re-lived the moment when Sherlock had first set eyes on him when John stepped into the pool area. Moriarty's voice in his ear, and then in his own words with the quiet greeting, "Evening".

Sherlock was clearly expecting Moriarty, and John watched the detective's mask slip for a fraction of a moment as he considered whether John could actually be Moriarty. Moriarty's glee through the earpiece could hardly be contained when he gave John the next words. "This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"John…what the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming."

Sherlock's reaction stunned John. He trusts me, and he is shocked wide open by betrayal. A man who called himself a sociopath actually cared enough to feel the emotion of betrayal. That thought startled John. My God, could he really think I am Moriarty? That I could be his intellectual equal? This provoked an almost guilty pleasure that Sherlock thought he could be so clever and so devious to have concocted the entire bombing scheme. Moriarty's waspish words filtered through the earpiece into his ear. "Oh no, you're not going to get the credit for this one, Johnny boy. He's all mine. So let's be a dear then and open the coat up. Show him the bomb. Now repeat after me…"

"What …would you like me ….to make him say next?"

"That will be £17.60, please." The taxi driver's words cut across John's replay of the poolside conversation. Looking about, he realised that the cab had arrived at Baker Street. John got out, thrusting a £20 note toward the driver with hardly a backward glance. As he put the key into the front door lock of 221b, he was pleased to see that his hands were no longer shaking. A cup of tea, that's what he needed first. Then an e mail apology to Sarah. And then he would decide whether bed was more sensible than waiting up for Sherlock.


	3. Meltdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now on his own after putting John in the back of a taxi to Baker Street, Sherlock tries to come to terms with what happened at the pool.

Sherlock strode away from the cab, and set a blistering pace, weaving his way through the pedestrians. His hands were still shaky, and he hated the effects of adrenaline when they were not being used to good purpose. The walk home would take at least an hour and let him work off the stimulation. There were a surprising number of people on the street, but this part of London was popular for clubbers and late night restaurants, so the pavements were busy and he had to dodge about to avoid collisions. It gave him something immediate and practical to focus upon, while his mind chewed away at the events of the poolside encounter.

He dealt first with his momentary belief that John was Moriarty. For that split second, when John had appeared alone by the poolside, the detective had been stunned, and then amazed. How could he have been so blinded by John's apparent ordinariness? To think up the four challenges required someone with the same sort of mental capacities as his own. How could he have fooled Sherlock so well for so long, and with such devastating effect? The two men lived together, shared so much- the strain of acting a role 24/7 would have been almost impossible.

Sherlock prided himself on being able to deduce the character of people; he had known of John's appetite for danger within hours of meeting him, but he had come to appreciate John's innate goodness, relied on him to deal with witnesses, the Yard team, even Mrs Hudson, where John's patience and warmth worked to soften the abrasiveness of his own lack of social skills. The quiet little "not good?" requests from Sherlock showed how much he had come to rely on John as his social compass. For the thirty seconds that Moriarty had played from behind the closed door, Sherlock was almost paralysed by shock that he could have been so wrong about John.

As the detective passed the Clapham South tube station, he did not hesitate, but moved onto the pathway by the Avenue that would take him into the heart of Clapham Common.  _89 hectares, 220 acres of park_ ,  _half in the borough of Wandsworth, the other in Lambeth. Over thirty serious assaults committed here last year,_   _patrolled by police from both Lambeth and Wandsworth stations._

Nevertheless, off the paths, he would be safe from Mycroft's CCTV surveillance for a few minutes. By now the call to Lestrade and the engagement of the bomb squad would have been drawn to his brother's attention. He needed time to think before having to deal with that distraction.

Moriarty had surprised Sherlock, and that annoyed him, intensely. He was so sure that the whole pips idea had been thought up to distract him from the theft of the missile plans. Now he wasn't even certain whether Moriarty would have taken the USB even if it had been the original. No, he was sure that the whole scheme had been devised to do just what the Irishman had said- to warn him. Oh, and to have some fun along the way, watching Sherlock dance to his tune. He had been played, all right, his every move predicted and watched. He had been so taken up with the challenge of the puzzles that he had not given much thought to why they had been set for him in the first place. Yet, the evidence had been there- Moriarty knew a LOT about Sherlock, his past and what made him tick.

He found himself wishing for the comfort of his scarf and Belstaff coat. He wasn't cold, as much as he needed to feel enveloped, held in; he wore his shirts tight and his suits form fitting because he needed the constant pressure on his skin to keep himself together. He stopped for a few moments, dragged in a few ragged breaths and drew his hands into his hair, first just ruffling the curls, then when that didn't help him focus, he tugged until the pain grounded him a bit. The Common was quiet at this time of night; too many risks for ordinary people to be loitering. Those who did frequent the paths this late would have different purposes on their minds- drugs, illicit sex, clandestine meetings that wanted no witnesses. Oddly, Sherlock knew he was safer because of that; not enough casual dog walkers, innocent civilians or joggers to draw criminals who might want to attack a solitary figure walking.

The darkness and the quiet of the Common helped him gather his thoughts, and he soon was underway again. He had come close to sensory meltdown at the pool. Just too much going on: the sounds echoing off the tiles, the shifting shadows and reflections caused by the water moved by the cleaning robot at its night time work. Alongside the visual stimuli, an overwhelming reek of chlorine, then the scent of his own sweat as the heat and humidity collided with the anticipation of at last meeting his adversary.

Then when Moriarty appeared, he had to split his attentions, listening to the Irishman's words, delivered so peculiarly at times in that weird sing song voice, whilst trying to hear how John's breathing patterns were being affected by the words. All that, while trying to block out the sound of the water lapping, and yet straining to hear any noise from the bleachers that would help him locate the snipers. His senses were literally on the very edge of his ability to filter and absorb the data. The adrenaline rush coming from his proximity to the bomb pushed his normal hypersensitivity to new levels that were positively painful.

The bomb. Yes, thinking about that brought a whole new problem to the surface: John. Once he had realised that John had become yet another "voice" for Moriarty, Sherlock closed the distance between them so he stood near his flatmate, scanning his face for any signs that he had been hurt when abducted. John positively reeked; the anorak and the bomb harness made him sweat in the humidity, mingling with his deodorant, shampoo and aftershave.

Then his nose detected a tinge of a familiar metallic scent coming through, which Sherlock knew after so many years of crime scene work- blood. Together with the pool chlorine, it almost made Sherlock cringe. His friend's breathing pattern was shallow, stressed. When forced to speak Moriarty's words, John had struggled to keep his voice utterly devoid of emotion. Yet, standing closer now, Sherlock saw on his face the toll that was being paid by his friend. Of all the victims chosen by Moriarty to incentivise Sherlock, John would know the consequences of a bomb explosion first hand.

As he reached the northern gate of the Common and crossed onto a well-lit Cedars Road, Sherlock's thoughts returned to his argument with John the day before.

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock had answered that question with one of his own. "Will caring about them help to save them?"

Even John had to agree that sentiment would make no difference to rescuing the victims. He had, however, been clearly disappointed by Sherlock's reply that he would therefore continue not to make that 'mistake'.  _What does he want from me? Sentiment is just grit in the deductive machine._

Now, Sherlock was annoyed….no, mortified was the better word. When Moriarty had threatened to burn the very heart out of him, his reply had been almost instantaneous. "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one". Even as the words left his mouth, he knew that his reaction to John in the bomb vest would lead to Moriarty's reply. "But, we both know that's not quite true." He had always managed to keep his distance from anyone; now a weakness had not only been detected by his enemy, but was being used against him. The confrontation forced him to come to terms with the fact that he felt and acted differently when his one and only friend was the one wearing a bomb jacket, rather than some anonymous stranger. He  _cared_ , much to his dismay.  _When did that happen? How? Why?_ It was all so confusing!

Moriarty had been able to see something that Sherlock had been wilfully ignoring for the past few months. "He's sweet. I can see why you like having him around", the Irishman had taunted him about John. Then he sneered at Sherlock. "But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. So touchingly loyal." While Sherlock was trying to come to terms with the revelation, the doctor just demonstrated the truth of the accusation by throwing his arms around Moriarty and yelling at Sherlock, "run!"  _Showing his hand, indeed._

He tried to understand how it could be possible for his flatmate to willingly sacrifice himself for …someone like Sherlock. When they thought that Moriarty had left, Sherlock had been hardly able to find the words, stumbling and stuttering out just that it was "um…good". That was John; he was good.  _Don't assume it meant that he cares for you more than he would for any stranger with a load of snipers threatening them. That's just the way he is._

The traffic at the intersection of Lavender Hill and Wandsworth Road was too heavy to cross against the traffic signals, so he found himself pacing whilst waiting. _Lavender Hill, called that because it was the place where lavender was cultivated in pre-industrial London, a 0.57 mile section of the road that rises eastward to the Falconbrook Valley._ It was a long light. His head started filling up with trivia about Wandsworth.

Agitation exuded from him, and other pedestrians at the crossing stepped away from him, sensing his dangerous mood. He drew even more stares when he starting humming to himself. The fingers of his left hand twitched a steady beat- thumb to index finger, then each of the other fingers in turn, over and over again. With no violin to hide his stereotypic behaviour, his self-stimulation was reduced to this. Either that, or start circling in sheer frustration, which Sherlock sometimes did when he was over excited. But that would certainly attract attention, and the intersection was covered by CCTV. He did not want to reveal to Mycroft just how far gone he was. He had spent his childhood channelling his autistic behaviours into less obvious forms, and it was only in periods of great stress that they broke down.

The pedestrian light switched to the green man, and he was off, half running across the intersection. Once underway, he felt grounded again. His brain switched back into fast forward mode and he found his train of thought again. Moriarty's threat; stop interfering and leave him alone, or John would suffer. "Gotcha!" had been Moriarty's taunt, and Sherlock was feeling, indeed, caught red handed with feelings for his flatmate that made him vulnerable. His weakness had been revealed and exploited.

Pedestrian traffic thinned in the more residential area as he approached the south bank of the river, and he made good progress up the Queenstown Road and past the dark shadows on the left that were Battersea Park. Less distraction on the pavement meant he could shove the trivia away and devote more thought to the problem.

Sherlock could deal with the threat to his own life. That had always been a given in his work; he'd lost count of the threats made by apprehended criminals. And many had taken it upon themselves to try to warn him off before they were caught. His body showed the scars of those confrontations. He didn't mind. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone?" Moriarty had asked. Sherlock replied instantly with an almost bored "Oh, let me guess, I get killed."

While the detective had no doubt that Moriarty could be as inventive in his approach to killing him as he had been with the five puzzles, Sherlock had not really considered the risks to John. Now he had to confront that, and he didn't like it, not one bit. It was all deeply, deeply annoying.

Sherlock crossed Carriage Drive and started onto Chelsea Bridge across the Thames.  _Built 1937, first self-anchored suspension bridge in England, tide's going out, another two point seven three hours before it turns._ He overtook another pedestrian walking north who looked at him oddly, and he wondered if he had just spoken out loud the constant stream of trivia that flooded his mind whenever he walked the streets of London. Another sign of impending meltdown.

When he reached the north Embankment, he spotted a black car with tinted windows that drove onto the northbound lane from Grosvenor Road. It slowed its progress to match his walking speed on the pavement, but he studiously ignored it. It kept pace with him until he crossed Pimlico Road, and was thankful that the traffic lights worked in his favour this time, holding the car back whilst he was able to carry on. It was only a momentary respite, however, and the car reappeared to resume its prowling pace, like some animal sniffing at his heels.

He was nearly to Sloan Square when, with a long drawn out sigh, Sherlock decided that it was pointless to carry on with the charade. He stopped, ran his hands through his hair, and then made for the kerb side, throwing open the rear passenger door and heaving himself in with a scowl. Anthea broke off her texting and gave him a cheery smile. "Nice night for a walk, even if it is a bit late, isn't it?!" and then resumed looking at her blackberry.

It was only a matter of minutes before the car drew up at one of the three story townhouses along South Eaton Place. Sherlock got out, stomped to the front door and scowled up at the CCTV camera discretely hidden at the side of the porch. "Oh, get on with it, Mycroft, you can't still be in bed; I have things to do!"


	4. Brotherly Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's walk home from the pool is interrupted by Mycroft, who begins to realise just what is happening. Fireworks ensue...

Sherlock didn't make eye contact with the man who answered the door. Half butler, half body guard, yet another one of Mycroft's faceless minions, thought Sherlock, as he shouldered past without a backward glance.

He found his brother in his study, past the formal reception room at the front of the ground floor, and before the dining room, kitchen and small conservatory that were at the back of the house. It was a masculine room, with a dark wood desk, leather seating, walls lined with bookcases. Only a single table lamp on the desk softened the comforting gloom.

There were two brandy glasses half full sitting on the small table between the two chairs on either side of the fireplace. Mycroft was dressed in old fashioned tailored cotton pyjamas, with a heavy silk dressing gown and leather slippers.  _Trust Mycroft to look like he's wearing a three piece suit even in bed._ The older man did not bother to get up, but stayed staring into the fire, his hands clasped in his lap.

"Do sit down, Sherlock ….if you can."

The younger man did not answer, but stared down at his left hand which seemed to have a life of its own, half way through a violin fingering practice drill.

Mycroft sighed, and stood up. Crossing to where Sherlock stood, he took both of his brother's wrists into his own hands and applied strong pressure, trying to get Sherlock to make eye contact with him.

"What has happened to get you so worked up?"

Moments passed. The tight pressure made his fingers stop their dancing, but Sherlock wouldn't look at his brother. Then he broke Mycroft's hold on him, and flopped down into the other chair, picking up the brandy glass. As his brother took his own seat, slouching back and extending his slippered feet toward the warmth of the fire, Sherlock asked, "What do you know about James Moriarty?"

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Oh dear, please don't tell me that he's the one behind all these horrid little puzzles that you've been working on with Lestrade."

" 'Fraid so, brother dear," replied Sherlock, his sarcasm evident from the emphasis placed on the last word.

"First tell me everything that has happened between you and Moriarty, and then I will tell you what I can." Mycroft clasped his fingers together beneath his chin and closed his eyes.

So, Sherlock began with the tale of the cabbie serial killer who confessed that Sherlock had a "fan" setting him up as the fifth "suicide victim". Before dying from John's bullet, the driver had confessed the name of the person responsible for adding Sherlock to the list of his victims. "Moriarty!" was literally squeezed out of the dying man, against his will.

"I wondered as much, which is why I showed up at the crime scene, despite your hostile reception, if you recall." Mycroft's words were calm, almost soothing.

"Then why in hell didn't you say so at the time?!" Sherlock made no effort to restrain his anger.

"You weren't exactly in a talkative mood then. I seem to remember you telling me in no uncertain terms to leave you alone." He shrugged. "Of course, it was early days for you and Doctor Watson, so I thought it advisable to leave you two to… ah… bond."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to control his temper.  _If only I had known more, I would have been better prepared for tonight._ The detective had not recognised Moriarty's name when he first heard it, but despite his best research efforts amongst his underworld contacts in the first few weeks, he had not been able to get much more than a vague idea of the shadowy figure behind that name in the months that followed. Then, the Black Lotus gang demanded a lot of his attention, and quite a few cases, both private and from New Scotland Yard, kept him occupied. So he let his Moriarty research lapse for a while. The Baker Street bombing and the five pips were his first real chance to get to grips with what lay behind the name. How much easier it would have been if his brother had been honest with him from the start.

Sherlock leaned forward toward Mycroft, his tension evident in the way he glared at his brother. As if he could feel the heat in that look, the British Government opened one eye carefully. "Calm yourself. You will know why, all in good time. Do I gather from this visit that he has made himself known to you now? Why else would the bomb squad be called to an obscure private swimming pool in south London at such an ungodly hour of the night?"

Sherlock smirked. "Sorry to get you out of bed, Mycroft. And, yes, I decided to force a meeting by tempting him with what you were trying to get me to find for you- the missile defence plans."

His brother's reply was waspish: "If you had been more willing to play when I first asked, I might have told you that the whole Bruce Partington thing was a set up. The supposed loss of the plans by the MoD man was originally an attempt to entice Moriarty out of the shadows long enough for us to…how does Lestrade describe it? …'feel his collar'? But it went wrong, and our man bungled it, got killed by his fiancé's brother. So, Moriarty actually showed up tonight himself? If so, then oddly enough, your intervention tonight actually managed to do the trick. I presume you doctored the data?"

When Sherlock nodded, Mycroft continued with more annoyance creeping into his tone. "Pity you didn't bother to tell us about your idea; we could have captured him. Instead, your amateurish efforts resulted in you risking everything- and he still got away." Mycroft eyed Sherlock with reproof. "When will you learn that if you want to play with the professionals, then you need to do so on my terms?"

The two men glared at each other over their brandies. Mycroft broke first. He sniffed. "What did you learn from the meeting?"

"He calls himself a 'Consulting Criminal', a 'Jim'll fix it' for villains who don't have the brains to figure their way out a paper bag. He doesn't get his hands dirty, and boasts that no one will ever get to him. I did tonight. He complimented me about that, said I had come the closest." He did not bother to hide his smugness.

"Don't underestimate him, Sherlock. He is way above your league of common criminal."

Sherlock huffed, his pride stung by Mycroft's comment. "Not so common, and yet I have managed to 'get in his way', as he called it."

Mycroft held up his brandy glass to admire its amber colour against the light of the fire. He sipped and savoured the taste before swallowing. Sherlock waited, but found his leg starting to jiggle with impatience. Then his fingers began to tap against the side of his brandy glass.

Mycroft glared at the offending appendage. "All right, just keep calm." He continued, "I can see by your suit jacket that you went armed. Why didn't you use it?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from his brother and stared into the fire. "Because he had wrapped John Watson in a suicide bomber's jacket, that's why."

"Oh, my...hmm," was the older man's only reply.

"You seem to have lost your usual eloquence, brother. Spit it out." Sherlock glared at him again.

"Well, this is troublesome. Risking your own life is something of a regular occurrence with you. Putting innocent people at risk is also something that has not bothered you much in the past, as Lestrade and his team have discovered to their own misfortune on occasion. But, this… risking  _John_. That bothers you, doesn't it?"

Sherlock decided that offence was the best diversionary tactic. "So, just who is he? What am I dealing with here, Mycroft? I could do with the truth before it's too late."

Mycroft sighed. "James Moriarty is the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen. That's probably not his real name, by the way; he has dozens of different aliases. I don't suppose you managed to get a photo of him, did you? Our images on file are badly out of date, and very few people have ever met the man. What we can trace of his early life is interesting. An excellent education, at 21 he published a treatise on Fibonacci numbers under the name of Moriarty that was highly praised across European academia. On the strength of that he became a senior lecturer in applied mathematics at Durham University for a term, but resigned claiming that he had never been so bored in his life." At this point, Mycroft broke off and looked pointedly at his brother. "Sounds like someone else I know who doesn't like boredom."

Sherlock huffed. "Just get to the point, Mycroft."

"Look at me and listen very carefully, little brother. I am not exaggerating. Stay away from Moriarty. He is simply far too devious, too well connected and out of reach for any one person, let alone you to tackle successfully. There are 32 countries in the world whose law enforcement and security services are at work trying to stop him. They've been at it for… years, so far with little effect."

Mycroft took another sip of his brandy before continuing. "You have no idea of the scale of his operation or the length of his reach. He has a finger in every pie there is- drugs, people trafficking, money laundering, art theft, illegal arms, counterfeiting, terrorism, smuggling, financial fraud. There is no crime that he has been unwilling to turn his attention toward, not even assassination, if it is interesting and challenging enough. No one is safe; if he wants to bring pressure to bear, even the most upright, law abiding folk in the world …bend, in the end. So, despite knowing that a criminal link is there, he proves impossible to convict; the evidence that links him to any crime just seems to vanish into thin air. It is said that he has people in high office all around the world who 'owe' him something. He uses blackmail to collect these people as his insurance policy."

Mycroft leaned back in the chair. "He never deals directly with criminals, only works through his own people, most of whom have never met him, a convenient cut-out between him and the crime syndicates who use his services. He's phenomenally bright, but totally devoid of human feeling. Psychopath is a kind definition." Mycroft paused, before summarising, "I have become convinced that James Moriarty is the brain behind half that is evil in this world."

Sherlock sniffed. "You sound like a card-carrying member of a teenage fan club, Mycroft. He didn't seem that formidable in the flesh."

"Don't make me repeat myself, Sherlock. Appearances can be deceiving. He is too dangerous and, as of now, officially off limits for you. If my warning isn't enough incentive, then just consider that you aren't the only one at risk here."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me any of this earlier? Maybe if your tremendous ego could have just stood it, you might have found sharing the truth could have helped us both out."

Mycroft winced. His brother's use of the F word was the surest sign yet that he was thoroughly rattled by his encounter with the consulting criminal. The only possible incentive he could provide to Sherlock to stop him from running straight back into battle was the risk it posed to John. They both knew it, but he wondered if it would be enough to deter his brother from his usual full blooded tilt towards self-destruction.

"I don't suppose you could do something really useful for once in your life, Mycroft? Use those dark powers of yours to convince John to do a spell in 'protective custody' or disappear into a witness protection scheme for a while?"

"And do you really think John would go willingly? You seem to have a lower opinion of him than my experience of Doctor Watson warrants. Your ex-army captain won't put any distance between himself and danger, you know that. Especially if he thinks you are likely to go haring off after a man like Moriarty. He will want to stay and make sure you don't do something rash. And if he doesn't understand that at first, I will ensure that he does."

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Don't you dare!" He had suddenly deduced the likelihood that Mycroft would now try to use John. "He's  _mine_! Keep your grubby hands off of him; don't you dare try to recruit him to do your bidding!"

Sherlock's subtext was clear. He was all but begging Mycroft not to interfere, not to try to convince John that his duty lay in choosing Mycroft's side. He knew the threat was real, that his brother was just itching to use his manipulate skills.

"Please…"

Mycroft knew what that word had cost Sherlock, and it was the surest confirmation of his worst fears about his brother's relationship with the doctor.

The silence between the two brothers lengthened. Then Mycroft just gave a tiny shake of his head. No, he could not promise to leave John out of this. There was simply too much at stake. Not just the two Holmes, but the needs of the UK and those other 31 countries after Moriarty could not be sacrificed. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Sherlock's reaction was pure vitriol. "You  _bastard,_ you're no different than Moriarty! You're using emotional blackmail to stop me. No, sorry Mycroft, do I have to remind you that I did not go 'looking' for Moriarty; he came after  _me!"_ With that, Sherlock knocked back the rest of the brandy, and stormed out. As he got to the study door, he said over his shoulder, "sweet dreams, brother; try not to set anyone  _else_  up tonight if you possibly can."

Mycroft waited to gauge his brother's emotional distress by the weight put behind slamming the front door. When it came, the bang was loud enough to wake people on both sides of the street, forcing yet another sigh from Mycroft.

It had not escaped Mycroft's attention that Moriarty had singled out Sherlock and met him face to face. It worried him more than anything else about the whole incident.  _What does he want with Sherlock? As annoying as he can be at times, Sherlock has not touched even a fraction of Moriarty's network. Why would he be remotely interested in my little brother?_ As he clasped his fingers under his chin again, and stared back into the fire, Mycroft found himself wondering whether Moriarty was after Sherlock, or whether his little brother was being used as a way to get at a certain 'minor official' in the British Government.  _In either case, I have to find a way to keep Sherlock out of this, once and for all._


	5. In the Wee Small Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hesitates before going back to Baker Street; a time-out is needed.

Back at Baker Street, John gave up waiting for Sherlock to return somewhere around 2.30 am. When he nodded off sitting in his chair for the third time, and woke up yet again to a stiff neck, he sighed, and went upstairs to find a more comfortable place to sleep. The adrenaline of the pool-side was long gone, his ribs and the back of his neck hurt, and he was knackered. Even if Sherlock returned now, John would not be able to have a sensible conversation, so he took two painkillers and decided to try to get some sleep. He figured Sherlock might have texted him, without realising that he'd lost his phone. As he made his way upstairs the doctor found himself hoping that his phone was lying somewhere on the floor of the locker room, rather than in Moriarty's hands.

Despite being exhausted, both physically and mentally, John found himself looking at the ceiling of his bedroom instead of sleeping. It was all too much to process. In the moments before Moriarty entered the pool, John had watched Sherlock's incredulous surprise – _John_ … w _hat the hell?_ replaced by a look of hurt and betrayal, an admission of emotion that had made John wince. He hated Moriarty using him as a weapon against Sherlock almost more than being made into a walking bomb.

Was trying to restore Sherlock's faith in him behind his decision? He hadn't really thought about it at the time, just spotted the moment and then the next he was grabbing the Irishman by the throat and yelling at Sherlock " _Run!"_  The fact that his friend had not moved spoke volumes. That Sherlock's first words when Moriarty left were  _"Are you alright?"_  said even more about a self-professed sociopath, who clearly was willing to make an exception for John. In those moments when their lives were in the balance, he had seen Sherlock more open, honest and, yes, vulnerable, than he had ever been willing to admit.  _No wonder he needed time on his own._ Knowing Sherlock as he did, John realised that the evening's revelations would have discomforted his friend.

When he did drift off eventually, it was to disturbed dreams. And, when those turned into a peculiar blend of Afghanistan and pools, he was not surprised that he woke up shouting and in a cold sweat. He got up, washed his face, went downstairs and fixed himself a cup of tea. There was no sign of Sherlock having returned, and John found himself hoping his friend would be better at handling the night's events than he was turning out to be.

oOo

Sherlock left his brother's at 1.45am, and his anger with Mycroft propelled him out of Belgravia as fast as he could manage it. Only once he reached Hyde Park Corner did he feel able to slow down and catch his breath in the pedestrian underpass. When he emerged on the north east side of Park Lane, he knew that Baker Street was only a 20 minute walk almost due north past Marble Arch. Yet, he realised that going home now would only bring him face to face with John. As much as he craved the comfort of familiar surroundings, he hesitated. 221b was now part of the problem, rather than a solution for him.

So he summoned up his mental maps of London and sought the next best thing- a place where Mycroft's cameras could not find him, where he would be safe and alone, able to do the kind of thinking that he really, really needed to do. He was getting desperate to get to his mind palace now. If he didn't get there soon, then he really was going to go into melt down.

Sherlock's grasp of London's geography was unique. Better than any internet street map or satellite photo, better than any A to Z book, his maps were in three dimensions and informed by an understanding of every one way street, gated pedestrian alley way, and back of the shop cargo bay and parking zone. He refreshed that map every time he walked or took a taxi; he was more up to date on the city's road works than any sat nav. He knew about traffic patterns and how they changed across a day, and could predict the timing of his journeys with precision. Unlike someone dependent on cars, taxis or cycles, he wasn't confined to roads or pavements; sometimes the quickest and most private routes were through parking garages, shops, underground tunnels, across the back gardens of residences or up fire escapes and across roof tops. He'd been known to use London's sewers and the construction tunnels of the Crossrail project. He had every communication and utility system overlaid on his maps, and knew how to access their tunnels if necessary. And, of course, the placement of every CCTV camera run by the Metropolitan Police, Transport for London and private security firm in the capital was marked on his map. He could get across London without being detected by prying eyes or leaving a trail on film. When he really wanted to, he could disappear and drive Mycroft's surveillance teams wild.

There were a number of nearby sanctuaries identified on his mental map, places he could go that provided some shelter from wind and rain, but above all else, total privacy. It was toward one of these places he headed now. Using the back alleyways behind New Bond Street, he avoided the street cameras. With just 200 meters on Cork Street (no cameras on this bit) he then took a sharp left through an archway lined with bins. He was on Cork Street Mews – a road that did not appear on any street view app. He scaled the fourth exterior fire escape and found a dry roof top terrace on a building that had been undergoing renovation for the past two years.

The terrace was under a glass canopy and used during the day by the builders, who conveniently left a number of plastic chairs out. They weren't allowed to smoke indoors when on their breaks, and Sherlock was delighted to find a half crushed packet of cigarettes and a matchbook left behind. He loved "secret smokers"- the ones whose wives or girlfriends would yell if they found any evidence in their loved one's pockets. He lit one and consumed it completely in a series of really deep drags, grateful for the nicotine rush and the illusion of warmth that the smoke in his lungs provided. He lit another immediately. John would nag if he smelled tobacco smoke on Sherlock's clothes, but outdoors it was less likely to cling. At this hour of the night it was still too cool for his liking, but at least here he could sit and think without the risk of being interrupted.

In places like these, he could abandon all pretences, smoke, mutter, sit with his knees pressed up and hugged tight to his chest, and even rock to his heart's content. Whatever made the mind palace work more efficiently, it was ok. No one to tell him to stop stimming or 'behave normally', whatever  _that_  was.

And he had some really deep thinking to do. Mycroft's new data about Moriarty needed to be picked apart, his  _feeling_  for John dissected and dealt with, a plan of action determined. Just one last task to do before he got started, as he finished the second cigarette, fished his phone out of his pocket, and started texting:

**John, I won't be back tonight. After your shift at the clinic, bring back some Chinese. And we are out of milk, again. –SH**

Once he sent the text, he turned his phone off. No disturbances. Sherlock had just over five hours until 7.30 am when the first workers would arrive on site. Once John left Baker Street for work he would be able to return there and settle in for a few more uninterrupted hours. The detective closed his eyes, and opened the door into his mind palace. 


	6. Desperate Measures- Mycroft

Despite the limited amount of sleep he'd had, Mycroft was up early and in the office before 7.30. Too many loose ends to sort out from the night before. He read the short NSY police report on the incident in the car on the way to the office, and now scanned the bomb squad's initial findings about the items recovered from the poolside. Just like the previous four, a nondescript harness constructed of plastic webbing that could be bought almost anywhere. Annoyingly, the explosives had been traced to an army installation in the northeast. Used for bomb disposal training purposes, the material was high grade British manufactured, and no one had any idea that it had gone missing until it showed up in the first victim's bomb jacket. The bomb's assembly, the detonators, even the plastic wiring of the earpiece were all either British army or police equipment manufacturers. Utterly predictable, if you wanted to hide its real maker.

No fingerprints, and the only DNA recovered last night belonged to one Captain John Watson, MD, whose records were attached to the manila folder. Mycroft sighed. Well, what did he expect? Moriarty was hardly going to make a mistake despite his girlish enthusiasm for meeting Sherlock in person. That was unexpected, and worrying. Mycroft knew that if Moriarty had actually wanted to stop Sherlock, he could have just ordered his murder, which would have been carried out by someone with ruthless efficiency. No, there was something more sinister in this gambit, and it made Mycroft decidedly uneasy.

Time to take some defensive measures. At 8 am, he called for his car, and Anthea escorted him down to meet it in the underground garage. New Scotland Yard was not far, and it would probably have been quicker to walk it, but Mycroft rarely risked presenting a tempting target. The effect on his waistline always drew his brother's criticism, but he preferred to be plump and alive to thin but dead.

Automatic number plate recognition technology at the Yard meant that the barrier went up without having to stop for anything more than the most cursory scan of his identification handed over by his driver to the security guard. He left the underground car park and went up to the fourth floor where he was greeted by a nervous detective sergeant at the lift. Mycroft was shown into Detective Inspector Lestrade's empty office, and told he should wait there until the DI arrived. "Can I get you a coffee, sir? He should be here within ten minutes." Mycroft declined the offer; NSY's vending machine coffee was notoriously bad.

When Gregory Lestrade arrived fifteen minutes later, Mycroft was amused to see he was carrying his own take out coffee. The silver haired detective looked tired and rather rumpled. He was flustered to find the senior Holmes in his office, but greeted him with a yawn and a smile. "If you had phoned ahead, I would have brought you one, too. Your brother kept me busy until way too late last night, Mycroft, but I can't say I am surprised to see you here this morning." The two men had known each other for years, bumping into one another regularly when the younger Holmes's relations with the police required external intervention to smooth over difficulties. Normally, the two men treated each other with some degree of respect, having built an understanding based on their mutual interest in keeping Sherlock off drugs, solving cases and generally out of trouble.

On this occasion, however, Mycroft seemed to be sitting a bit straighter in his chair, his briefcase and the ubiquitous umbrella situated a little too neatly by his side. Unlike Lestrade, there was no evidence that he had anything but a good night's sleep. His three piece suit was impeccable as always. But, the smile on his face did not reach his eyes, and Lestrade shifted a bit uncomfortably, instinctively knowing that something was not quite right.

"I regret to say Detective Inspector that I am here on official business." Mycroft paused for effect. "I have to ask you formally to hand over the files and all evidence relating to the four previous bombing cases, as well as all evidence collected on that and last night's poolside incident. These cases are being removed from the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police and responsibility for them has been vested in …another organisation which must remain nameless".

Greg looked askance. "Jesus, who got you up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? What's going on?"

Mycroft fixed the detective with a glare that made Lestrade remember just how similar the Holmes brothers could be at times. "This is no longer a matter for you, your team or anyone else in New Scotland Yard, and I am not obliged to explain why. Furthermore, you will instruct your IT department to do a full system purge by noon today of any data relating to a person going by the name of James Moriarty and the other aliases that are on this sheet." He opened his briefcase and drew out a single sheet of paper, with a list of some twenty or more names. "This…request…comes with the full agreement of the Assistant Detective Commissioner and the Commissioner himself, so I expect compliance to be immediate and complete."

"Does Sherlock know about this?" the Detective Inspector said quietly as he scanned down the sheet at the names.

"No, and you will ensure that he does not know about it, nor that I have delivered the news to you in person."

Greg locked eyes with the older Holmes in front of him. "He's not stupid; he will figure it out."

"I also have to ask you to do something else that you may not agree with," Mycroft continued. "I will be personally vetting all police cases that you are thinking of asking Sherlock to help you with. No more impromptu text messages to join you at a crime scene; everything has to be passed through me and approved, before he is even contacted. If he shows up uninvited at a crime scene, he is to be told in no uncertain terms to go away. Every other detective on the force will be told today that they can't work with him directly, it all has to go through you- and only after I approve it. "

Greg nearly choked on a sip of coffee that was halfway down his throat. "Bloody hell- what has Sherlock done to piss you off? He is going to go stark raving bonkers when he hears about this."

"Which is why you will not tell him about this conversation or my stipulations. Non-compliance on your part would be a career limiting move. And I will know if you so much as whisper to him anything about this. I have the agreement of the Commissioner that Sherlock's involvement in Yard cases in the future will conform to my requirements, and that Sherlock will remain unaware of this change."

The threat hung heavy in the air. Lestrade put his coffee down and raised both his hands in mock surrender. "Ok, ok- don't get your knickers in a twist! I get the message. I just want to know why."

Mycroft sighed. "I am not planning on stopping all of the work, just making sure that he stays away from any case that might involve the bomber in any way, even tangentially. Did he tell you that last night's pool side incident involved a face-to-face meeting with the man himself?"

Greg had the decency to look shocked. "No, he did not. He just said that he had nipped what he called 'the fifth pip' in the bud, and that there was another bomb to be collected at the pool."

Mycroft huffed. "So, he didn't tell you about John Watson wearing that bomb jacket, nor about the presence of snipers. I would say he has been rather economical with the truth with you, Lestrade."

"Well, as much as that pisses me off, it doesn't surprise me. He's been running after this guy like it was Christmas; I've never seen him so fired up. How on earth are you going to know in advance when the bomber is involved?"

"I have my ways," Mycroft replied.

"Well, I just hope it doesn't happen too often. If we are lucky the number of Yard cases going to Sherlock won't drop too much. If it does, Sherlock will drive John and me up the wall. How on earth are you going to keep him distracted? You know what he is liable to do if he gets seriously bored."

"We can only hope that Doctor Watson's blog prompts a few more interesting private clients to come forward," Mycroft said, without much conviction. "I have yet to have my conversation with him to tell him that I will be applying the same kind of vetting to those cases. I would not put it past the bomber to contact Sherlock directly, so I have increased surveillance accordingly."

He leaned forward, and locked eyes with detective. "Detective Inspector, this is for Sherlock's own protection. And the life of John Watson is at stake, as well. They are both in great danger, and I will take extreme measures if I have to, in order to protect them." With that comment, he stood up, collected his brief case and umbrella and strode out of the office, leaving Lestrade staring in wide-eyed dismay.


	7. Desperate Measures- John

John's alarm went off at 7.15. From the moment he thumbed it off, auto-pilot switched on, and he was half way across the room toward the bathroom-  _shave, shower, shit: the army morning drill_ \- before the pain in his side brought back memories of just what he had been doing last night instead of sleeping. He decided to just shelve all of those memories until his brain could to catch up with his body. Which it did quickly when the hot water hit the knife wound across the back of his neck. He hissed his discomfort, and moved so the water pounded onto his left shoulder. He had been so tensed up at the pool that his old wound throbbed almost as much as his ribs. But, he could cope with physical issues; in a way, he was grateful because they kept his mind focused on the here and now, rather than the events of last night.  _Not ready to go there yet._

That thought kept him going right through dressing and getting downstairs to tea and breakfast. No sign of Sherlock, but somehow John wasn't surprised. As he passed his flatmate's bedroom door, he did knock and peek in, just in case, but he knew that Sherlock was as likely to have slept in his bed last night as a pig was to come flying up Baker Street. The man's bedroom was resolutely empty, silent and strangely neat, with no sign that he had even crossed the threshold in days.  _How is he able to keep this room clean, when everywhere else is such a shambles?_  He tried moving some of the papers strewn over the table by the windows in the living room, so he could eat his bowl of dry cereal.  _No milk,_   _again!_ That had rather ruined his cup of tea, not to mention his cereal. He rarely ever saw Sherlock drink a glass of milk, yet their capacity to get through it was astonishing. An image of Sherlock taking a milk bath came into his head, and he smiled; maybe that's how he keeps that skin of his so pale. He quickly turned off the thoughts of Sherlock lounging back in a bath.  _No, don't go there._

John heard the kettle whistling for his second cup of black tea, and moved back to the kitchen, trying to find some room on the table for his cup, amongst Sherlock's clutter of petri dishes, beakers and oddly shaped glass tubing. He answered his own earlier question with a sigh,  _his_   _bedroom is neat because he is almost never in in it and probably has no idea what it's actually for._  If and when the detective did sleep, it was most often on the couch or slumped over a table whilst sitting in a chair. John had once come in from work and rushed over in a panic at the sight of the crumpled figure of his flatmate on the floor, only to find him sound asleep where he had fallen in exhaustion.

He missed his phone; he should text Sherlock to see if he was OK, and what was going on. He felt uneasy being out of touch, so John risked being late for work in order to write a note.

**At the clinic today; back tonight- I'll bring Chinese. Lost my phone, will get another at lunch time. Hope you're OK.**

He slipped it under the fridge magnet (in the shape of a skull, naturally), and gathered his keys and grungy old coat.  _Might want to get another jacket, too when I'm out at lunch; never liked this one much._

After such a strenuous night, John was actually grateful for the morning's mundane stream of patients at the clinic. Their symptoms kept his attention focused on diagnostics and prescription writing, as well as the inevitable paperwork of referrals, sick notes, and updating patient records. He kept thoughts about the pool resolutely out of his mind. The army and Afghanistan had taught him a lot about being able to push things aside.  _Think about that later, maybe when I'm home and can talk to Sherlock._

At noon, John warned Sarah and the receptionist that he was going to take a long lunch hour, for once. "I've lost my bloody phone and I need a new jacket, so I'm heading down to Camden; should be back for my three o'clock appointment."

He was half way to Camden before he became aware of a black car with tinted windows drawing up beside him. He rolled his eyes skywards, but stopped and, with a heavy sigh, opened the back door to find Anthea smiling at him. "Hop in; you're wanted" she said in her usual cheery tone.

"Well, it's nice to be wanted," John replied through clenched teeth. "But I'm on a tight timetable and I really do need to do some shopping; I've lost my phone. I hope this won't take long."

Anthea didn't reply. She looked up briefly at his comment about the phone, but then returned to her texting.

Fortunately, the car had only been underway for about fifteen minutes when they drew up to an anonymous looking building off Old Street roundabout. "Take the lift up to the fourth floor; you'll be met." This time, she didn't even bother to look up at him.

When the lift doors opened, John was faced by a man whose business suit did not hide the fact that he was well built and held himself like someone used to danger. John had come to recognise the archetype of one of 'Mycroft's minions', as Sherlock called them. After scanning him up and down, the agent just silently beckoned John to follow him down an empty corridor. He opened a door and gestured John through, remaining on guard in the corridor after John entered.

 _Oh, the office block equivalent of one of Mycroft's abandoned warehouses_. John was in an open plan room the size of a football pitch, carpeted and lit by a wall of windows on either side. It was also totally empty of anything other than two chairs in the centre, one of which was occupied by Mycroft, whose briefcase and umbrella sat neatly on the floor beside him.

"Hello John. We need to talk."

As John settled into the empty chair, he tried to lighten the mood. "I can't say I like your interior decorator- a little minimalist for my taste."

"Given Sherlock's appetite for urban squalor, I can understand that uncluttered might make you nervous." But, despite the little smile that he wore, Mycroft's eyes held no humour in them.

Without any further effort at pleasantries, Mycroft launched straight in. "I know all about what happened at the pool last night- and how it links to the previous puzzles. Unlike you and Sherlock, I also know who Moriarty is, and I have some idea about what he is up to."

"Well, very nice of you to share that with me  _now_ , Mycroft, but it might have been more helpful to have had this discussion a little earlier." John tried to keep his sarcasm under control.

This time Mycroft's wry smile was more genuine. "As you might imagine, Sherlock was less polite than you've just been, when I spoke to him about it last night." His smile died as he went on. "I don't need to remind you about the 'need to know' protocol. Unfortunately, you now need to know… more than you have been told in the past anyway. And the reason is simple. I need your help, if Sherlock is to come out of this alive with his sanity intact."

Of all the things that Mycroft could have said, these words chilled John right to the bone. Ever since the bomb had gone off at Baker Street, and then the pink phone had been found in the ruins, John had been increasingly worried. Moriarty's  _game_  was something different from anything that he and Sherlock had been involved with before. And the growing tension between the two flatmates was part of it. Since Moriarty had arrived on the scene, their arguments were ...more personal, more vitriolic and damaging than the usual bickering that characterised life at 221b. The thoughts he had been keeping at bay since dropping off to sleep last night now came screaming back into the front of his mind. And, looking at his flatmate's brother now, he knew that both of them shared a common dread.

"I think you know that I am not prone to exaggeration, John. Moriarty is the most serious threat that Sherlock has ever faced, and I am going to need your help in protecting him from the worst of his own foibles. His impulsiveness, his willingness to take risks, his wilful disregard for the wishes or feelings of others. Sherlock is ….the perfect target for Moriarty. And like a moth to a flame, he is going to be drawn in too deep, unless you and I make sure he doesn't succumb to temptation."

John swallowed. "Mycroft, are you purposefully trying to scare me?"

"Yes, John, I am.  _I_ am scared, and more important, Sherlock should be too, but he is too stubborn, arrogant and conceited to admit it."

Mycroft quickly filled John in on just who and what Moriarty was, leaving the doctor in no doubt that the Irishman was the most formidable enemy he was ever likely to face.

John listened quietly, and then gave a wry grin." And there I was thinking that he was just a common or garden variety maniac who liked dressing people up in bombs."

"Yes, well. Perversely, John, you should be flattered. Moriarty rarely comes 'out to play'. He generally prefers to sit in the shadows and pull the strings, without risking himself. If he had actually wanted you or Sherlock dead, it would have happened without warning – a sniper's bullet, a knife on a crowded underground platform, a bomb in the flat- he has an entire hit squad at his beck and call. It is quite likely, by the way, that the analysis going on now will prove that the bomb you were wearing wasn't actually armed. He wouldn't have risked his own life by being in such close proximity to it when meeting Sherlock."

"Well, It felt pretty  _real_  to me."

"Yes, given what had happened with the previous four victims, that is precisely what he wanted you to believe. And Sherlock would not be able to take the chance that it wasn't real, not with your life at stake." He leant forward and asked, "What did Moriarty say to you before you went out to meet Sherlock? When you were abducted?"

John started to recount how he had been knocked out near Baker Street and then recovered consciousness, the three snipers, and being pushed into the anorak.

"No, John. Sorry, but I need to know James Moriarty's  _actual_  words, what he said to you, all of it."

John looked embarrassed and did not reply for a moment.

Mycroft held his eyes and did not let John off the hook. "Everything, John. Sherlock's life may depend on it."


	8. Choosing a side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's conversation with John continues..

"Not everyone has a photographic memory, you know!" John felt threatened by Mycroft's insistence of knowing everything that Moriarty had said in the minutes before he met Sherlock at the pool.

 _As if I am going to confess that Moriarty thinks I am shagging his brother. Or that he thinks I am not worthy of Sherlock, that I'm his 'pet', or someone who can be used as a weapon against him. If Mycroft believes any of that too, I might end up 'disappeared'. How am I going to get out of this?_ John let the silence continue, in the hope that inspiration might come.

Mycroft just looked at John, deducing what might lay behind the doctor's outburst. "Oh, my… Yes, I can imagine that it wasn't pleasant." He offered John a brief sympathetic smile. "But, we – the three of us- can't afford to put our wish for personal privacy above the needs of others. You were under enough stress to be able to remember. I am sure you can paraphrase, if you really can't recall his exact words."

Mycroft sat back in his chair, slouching, thrust his legs out, whilst scrutinising John. Finally, his patience seemed to snap, and he sat forward.

"Fine, shall I tell you what I think Moriarty said? You can just nod along, if you like."

_Damn his smugness!_

Mycroft clasped his fingers under his chin, and studied John, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. "Moriarty would be puzzled by you. Your ordinariness, your …niceness, and normality. Your lack of intellectual prowess. He would have been quite dismissive of your family, education, career- oh, yes, he will have researched you quite thoroughly, I am sure. On the face of things, you are a most unlikely companion for my brother. He would be surprised too by your willingness, your ability to live with an eccentric genius who is reputedly sociopathic. He will wonder, as half of London seems to be, whether the two of you are in a sexual relationship. He probably questioned you about Sherlock, probing for weaknesses, trying to understand just why you are so damnably loyal."

"Is this what you think Moriarty thought, or is it, for once, what  _you_ think, Mycroft?" John knew that crossing his arms and glaring at the elder Holmes was probably revealing more than he wanted to, but he could not help it.

This time he got a slight smile and the silky reply: "Oh, I know _better_ , Doctor Watson."

"Your addiction to the battlefield, to danger, to the adrenaline high of team work, side by side with someone who is more than willing to have you beside him. You think solving crimes is socially beneficial, like fighting for your country and healing the sick. You make yourself useful, and Sherlock's wilful neglect of himself pulls at your nurturing instincts, too. And, yes, I do realise that he is better for having you there at Baker Street. He eats more, sleeps more and has stayed away from drugs since you arrived on the scene, for which, by the way, I am eternally grateful. You have saved his life on a number of occasions. Above all else, as you said yourself, life with Sherlock is never boring. So I can understand your motivations, John."

When John made no comment, Mycroft continued. "Does your relationship mean that you have … _feelings_ for him? Moriarty might have made snide comments to that effect. I would not presume to judge your emotions in that area, however, because I know that they have not been acted upon. I know that the rumours are unfounded, not just because I have the flat under surveillance, but because I know Sherlock, and the idea would be …difficult for him to consider. But the fact that you shot a man without remorse to save Sherlock's life within hours of meeting him suggests that for you at least this is more than a practical arrangement to save on accommodation costs. Anyone reading your blogs knows that you admire and respect Sherlock, which is more than is said by most people who know or work with him. Their usual reaction to his eccentricities is much less forgiving. On his part, I know that for Sherlock you are his one and only friend…ever. If he were a normal 35 year old adult male, that would be a rather poor record in terms of relationships."

Mycroft looked down at his shoes and seemed to be considering something. "Mind you, we both know he isn't exactly 'normal'." When he looked up, there was a steely glint to his eye.

"John, if you were a sane man, you would run for cover as fast as you could. Moriarty is quite likely to be the death of you. My advice is to leave Baker Street, publicly announce on that blog of yours that you are never going to work with Sherlock again, and do everything to put distance between you and him. Go join a GP practice up in Edinburgh. I could arrange it, fund a fresh start. Better yet, leave the country. I could help there, too. Sherlock asked me last night to put you into protective custody or bury you in an overseas witness protection scheme."

John's shock must have shown on his face. After a moment to digest what Mycroft had said, he raised his chin, and tilted his head to the left a bit. It reminded Mycroft of their first meeting.

"Not a chance."

Mycroft smiled again, but it was tinged with sadness. "Yes, that's what I told Sherlock you would say. But, John, if you are going to go through this, and be there when he really needs you, then there are things you have to know about Sherlock, things that might help the two of you stay alive." He took a deep breath.

"First of all, and I am sure that you probably know this by now, he isn't a sociopath. Far from it, in fact. Sociopaths use charm to get their way, grossly manipulative in intent. Sherlock can't be bothered to charm. Oh, that's not to say that someone hasn't officially diagnosed him as such. Over the years, he has collected just about every conceivable label- bipolar, OCD, ADHD, a veritable dictionary of alphabets. Let's take Associative Personality Disorders: Borderline, Narcissist, and that wonderful psychiatrist's catch-all, 'Not Otherwise Specified' – he's been labelled at one time or another with the lot. It became a game for him- learn the symptoms and the behaviours, then play them back to the latest psychiatrist or therapist that Father threw at him, and laugh at the inevitable diagnosis. What was real, and what was just for affect, it became hard to tell. A lot of those behaviours he found useful for keeping people at bay, and they became acquired skills, part of his armour."

"Most of the diagnoses share the view that the sufferer lacks empathy and cannot read emotions in others. But, as you well know, Sherlock has always been able to read other people; it's part of why he can deduce behaviour and motivation so well. He doesn't always understand his own and rarely chooses to show some emotions, but that isn't the same as not having them. There are traces of alexithymia, but I've learned that it isn't an accurate diagnosis of Sherlock."

John shifted in his chair. "You aren't telling me anything I don't already know, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. "Then here is something that I don't think has occurred to you yet, at least not to this degree. Sherlock was born autistic. Not even at the high functioning end of the ASD scale, but textbook mid-range. His saving grace was that he is also a genius. His intelligence, the fact that he has a photographic memory and our mother's patience at teaching him acceptable behaviours mean that he can now just about pass as normal. You may have thought of him as having Aspergers, but his autism is actually much, much worse than that. He has learned how to channel most of the behaviours into more socially acceptable activities. He is smart enough to use adaptive camouflage."

"Mycroft, there is a difference between banging your head against a wall and playing the violin."

"Yes, and before he learned the violin, he flapped his hands and rocked when he was stressed just like the image that is in your mind right now when I say the word 'autistic'. Sherlock learned to push the stereotypic fixations and repetitive acts into his violin playing and his mad experiments. Most people get hung up on the body parts, and don't probe much further into what he is actually doing."

"When he shouts that he is 'bored', in fact what he means is that he doesn't have enough intellectual stimulation to be able to keep at bay the torrent of trivial data crowding out meaningful thought. It makes his drug of choice understandable- by slowing his dopamine reabsorption rate, cocaine actually allows him to focus and manage the stream of data coming in. It's a despicable habit, but it is …understandable that he would be tempted to self-medicate."

John's eyes widened. "Are you saying that you don't object to the drug abuse?"

"It's not the drug that bothers me, as much as its consequences. It's the loss of what little inhibitions he has, the risk taking, being taken advantage of by others who see his drug induced vulnerability as an open invitation to abuse. It's the drug's effect on his ability to pass as normal; under its influence he cares even less of what people think of him. And, yes, before you get on your high horse, Doctor Watson, it's also the short and long term effects on his health, of course."

"I don't like it, and have pushed him into rehabilitation often enough to know. But, I also know that left to his own devices, that amazing brain of his will run in ever decreasing circles at a hundred miles an hour. He will be able to tell you exactly how many cracks there are in the ceiling above his bed at Baker Street, their length to the tenth of a centimetre and the day when they first appeared. He can probably tell you every single item of clothing in your wardrobe and dresser, when you last wore it, when you last washed it, and deduce what you were doing it in at the time by the stains and creases."

He sighed. "Mummy and I spent the first seven years of his life trying to find things that were marginally more useful on which to focus all that brainpower. It is an exquisite form of torture for someone with ASD also to be cursed with a nearly eidetic memory. The mind palace was his salvation, because it helps him manage all that data. The normal adult automatically filters out nearly 80% of all sensory stimulation, but Sherlock has to rely on manual deletions."

"My brother hides his afflictions so well that most people just assume he is a rude, arrogant prick. Too much stimulation pushes him into meltdown because he can't filter anything out but people don't realise it because he disguises his stress by ranting about how stupid everyone is. I know you think he is an upper class lazy sod because he won't go to Tesco to do the shopping. The real reason is that he finds a department store or supermarket an almost overwhelming cacophony of sights, sounds, smells and too many people. His hypersensitivity pushes him right over the edge, so he has learned to avoid it. But, he is hardly going to say that, is he? He'd rather you thought him selfish and clueless."

That made John think again. Behaviours that he had assumed were eccentricities or the result of Sherlock's privileged background now made a different kind of sense. Sherlock's insistence on sleeping naked on 800 thread count sheets. The natural fibres in all that expensive tailored clothing. John knew that Sherlock loathed being touched, and that crowds made him irritable. He'd watched as Sherlock went ballistic when Lestrade and his team did their 'pretend drugs bust', invading 221b with noise, confusion and challenge. The silences that could last for days. He had watched Sherlock at countless crime scenes being able to deduce things from the scent of a particular perfume, which he would know by brand name and price, or by knowing the difference between the texture of mud from south of the Thames compared to North Hampstead just by the way it felt and smelled. Yes, it all began to fit.

He looked back up at Mycroft. "Why are you telling me this now, Mycroft? How is relevant to Moriarty's threat?"

"Because Sherlock is self-aware; he knows his own weaknesses, and does just about everything he can to disguise them. Because of that, he isn't able to be truly himself to many people, and he is absolutely terrified of letting anyone get too close, close enough to see beyond the smokescreen of his arrogance and his genius. He'll settle for fear over pity any day. People quite rightly keep their distance from someone who freely admits he is a sociopath; far better in Sherlock's view than the look that comes when people think of autistics. 'Allist privilege' is what it is called- the assumption that the majority defines what is 'normal' and that someone who is autistic is…mentally defective."

John snorted. "Whatever Sherlock is, it isn't disabled; he has amazing abilities that are put to perfect use in what he does."

Just for a moment, Mycroft let himself appreciate what his brother saw in the doctor. He recalled Sherlock's outburst last night- 'he's _mine!'_  If Mycroft could, he would have liked to spare John this, and avoid the disappointment that would come when Sherlock realised that John had been subverted.

 _Needs must_ , he told himself. Mycroft had to shelve sentiment and focus on necessity. By taking the doctor into his confidence and convincing him to help control Sherlock, he knew that he was crossing a line that his brother would never, ever forgive.

"When Sherlock claimed at 24 that he wanted to be the world's first consulting detective, I thought it a waste of his talents. He could be more useful helping the security services than the police. There I could protect him. But, he wants no part of working for me, nor is he content to live under the same roof as me either. A flat share was the only acceptable compromise, because he tries harder when there are normal people in his living space.  I learned to look rather more closely at his choices after he let a cocaine dealer move in with him. My appreciation for his extraordinary capabilities does not blind me to his vulnerabilities. Those are what Moriarty will use to bring him down. And Sherlock has made himself more vulnerable now, because of  _you_.

"What, compared to a drugs dealer, you mean?" John looked a bit exasperated. "Can I actually be worse for him than that?"

"Perversely, yes, because he actually  _cares_  about you. Before now, in his life, he has only ever cared, truly cared, about one person- Mummy. Her death when he was ten nearly destroyed him. Our father never understood Sherlock and they had an appalling relationship. "

"Lots of people don't get on with their fathers; it's hardly news," John felt he had to stick up for his friend.

"Most people don't have fathers like ours. He put Sherlock in an institution for seven months after Mummy died, because my little brother couldn't handle his grief. I was 17 and in my first year of university. I could do nothing to stop Sherlock from going into a catatonic major depressive episode. A course of ECT stopped the catatonia, but he didn't speak for the whole of those seven months. I was the one who found him and got him out. I became his legal guardian while Father was still alive."

John was stunned by the series of revelations, each one more shocking then the previous. "Who the hell uses electro-convulsive therapy on an autistic  _child_ , Mycroft!"

"A father who is convinced that his second son is mentally defective and belongs in an institution." Mycroft's quiet answer conveyed the pain he was not even trying to disguise. "It cost my brother dearly, those seven months. What came out the other end was a very different Sherlock."

John suddenly realised something else that appalled him. "Oh, my God…one of the side effects of ECT is memory loss. I've teased him mercilessly for not knowing primary school stuff about the solar system, when it was probably just a result of that…treatment." He did not hide his embarrassment about the distress he must have caused his friend.

"John, Sherlock would forgive you anything like that, because he knew it was unintentional. You didn't know; you treat him as if he were normal, so he couldn't tell you the truth. It's your gift to him, for which he is incredibly grateful. Without realising it, you have been holding Sherlock accountable to normal standards of behaviour, and he has done better as a result. You don't judge or criticise, you just nudge and expect. And, if he doesn't quite make it, you are patient. He responds to that best of all, as Mummy knew."

Mycroft pursed his lips a bit, as if contemplating how to phrase something. John was surprised, as Mycroft never seemed lost for words.

"You are his one and only friend. He has never, ever had a relationship like the one he has with you. He deals with people, even those he knows well and who are close to him, on a transactional basis. And he would never classify these people as 'friends'. But, he has done that with you."

John had not really thought this through, all the way through, before. For him, friends were people he knew, people he worked with, army buddies, colleagues, fellow students, girl friends, rugby pals that he would meet in a pub. It was a category that was as broad as John's interests. He had never thought of it as being something quite as precious as it clearly was to his flatmate.  _God, and I had to correct him in front of that idiot Sebastian Wilkes when he introduced me as his 'friend'._

"Yes, I see that you are beginning to understand the consequences for Sherlock of something that normal people just take for granted. Sherlock will never, ever forgive me for telling you all of this. The only reason I am doing so is because I believe you need to know it in order to help him through what is coming from Moriarty. And it is clear that he  _trusts_  you. That too is unique in his experience. So, you will have to carry on telling him off when he oversteps the mark, and pretend we haven't had this conversation. He will loathe my interference in your relationship. Well, if he finds out, then let it be on my head. I have already sacrificed his affection forever; if it helps keep him alive, I can deal with his hatred now."

John wondered if he would be able to do what Mycroft was suggesting. How could he hide anything from a man who could deduce what he did on a date last week from the simple set of his shoulders?

Now Mycroft switched into his more professional demeanour. "When the time comes, you are going to have to convince him to ignore Moriarty. I have taken some steps already. As of this morning, I will be vetting all cases from Lestrade and the Yard to make sure that you and Sherlock stay out of Moriarty's business. And, no, Sherlock will not be told this fact. I am also doing you the courtesy of telling you that every comment and new case enquiry posted to your blog website will be intercepted and vetted before you see it, for the same reason. Direct contact of any kind that makes you think that Moriarty might be behind it, you will text me immediately. Lastly, John, for Sherlock's sake, you are going to agree to keep these facts from him."

Mycroft gathered up his umbrella and briefcase. "I said it the first time I met you, John…time to choose a side. The best way to be a friend to Sherlock is to help me do this for him."

John stood up at the same time, and kept pace with Mycroft to the door. The agent outside handed Mycroft a new mobile phone, which he passed on to John. "This is a replacement for the one you lost last night. I have taken the precaution of preloading your address book. And your black jacket was recovered from the pool last night; it's in the car waiting for us."

When the black car dropped John off at the clinic, he looked down at the phone in his hand, realising that it meant Mycroft must have had a copy of his old SIM card. No doubt, too, this new phone would be bugged, maybe even GPS microchipped as part of his surveillance of Sherlock. Before he shut the car door, he leaned back in and said to its occupant. "You know I haven't yet agreed to lie to Sherlock, and just because you've asked is no guarantee that I will, when the time comes."

"Yes, you will, John, because you  _care_." With that comment, Mycroft asked the driver to take him back to the office.


	9. Desperate Measures- Sherlock

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, trying to block out the sound of Mrs Hudson's vacuuming downstairs. Despite the five hours spent on the rooftop, and then the six hours at Baker Street between nine and three o'clock, his extended retreat into his mind palace had not produced the desired answers. The noise below was just the final straw that broke his tenuous hold on concentration. Tugging his dark curls and growling in frustration, he stood up from the sofa, walked straight across the coffee table and started to pace in circles of agitation. His hands jerked spasmodically, until he picked up his violin and began to pluck haphazardly. That lasted less than a minute, before he sighed and replaced the instrument in its case.

When he was this far gone, he knew that there were only a few mechanical things he could do to force his thinking back on track. He rummaged in the printer for sheets of blank paper, and grabbed scissors. He cut half of the pieces in two and then grabbed the packet of markers, twine, sticky notes and blue tack out of the drawer.

He returned to the sofa and stood on it. The first full size sheet he stuck to the wall and started to write "Mor...". He stopped and looked at it for a moment and then swore, " _STUPID!_ " Putting everything up in a mind map of the problem would make it visible to John- and to Mycroft's surveillance team, and that would not do. He ripped the sheet off, and started over again. He closed his eyes and dragged out of his mind palace his latest encryption code. This time he wrote a series of numbers and letter combinations that looked utterly random. And he made sure that he started with a different sheet, something other than Moriarty, so no one would get at least three of the letters. He used blue tack to put this one up in a different place- on the right. 

He was the only one who knew what was serving as his code reference source. Mycroft would assume it was a book; only Sherlock knew it was a piece of music, one that had never been written down, because he had not got around to doing so after composing it three years ago. Foolproof. It would drive the decoding team at GCHQ right around the bend, which would irritate the hell out of Mycroft. Good, serve the bugger right for eavesdropping.

By the time John got home and started climbing the stairs to the flat, Sherlock had plastered almost the whole wall behind the sofa with pieces of paper and sticky notes, in various colours with different coloured writing on them, long lines of twine pulling some of them into odd groups. And all covered in the seemingly random collection of letters and numbers.

John's steps paused briefly on the stairs, as he realised with relief that his flatmate had returned. When he reached the landing the doctor went straight through the kitchen door to deposit the milk in the fridge and the take away in the oven. When he emerged into the living room, Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room staring at the wall. John looked perplexed for a moment, before blithely asking Sherlock if he wanted a cup of tea.

"Mmmm. Yes. Where've you been?" The detective did not take his eyes off the wall.

Well, at least he was here and he was talking. John went back into the kitchen to put the kettle on. The skull magnet on the fridge caught his eye. "Sherlock, didn't you see my note? I told you about my clinic duty, and the fact that I'd lost my phone. Went out at lunchtime and got a new one."

When he handed his flatmate his cup of tea, Sherlock did not look at him, but remained fixated on the wall, sipping slowly. John waited for some sign that the detective had heard his earlier comment, but none was forthcoming. He looked at the weird hieroglyphics on the wall, sighed and went over to collapse in his chair.

A few minutes later, Sherlock said quietly, "Well, that would explain the odd reply I got from you last night when I sent a text saying I wouldn't be back until morning. Moriarty must have found your phone and replied."

John sat up with a start. "What did he say?"

Sherlock just waved his hand behind him in the general direction of the table, where his phone was lying.

John picked it up and thumbed through the texts.

**Sherlock, I miss you, am lying back in my bed thinking of you. Come home now. –JH**

_Shit! That bastard!_

"Relax, John; that text was so 'not you' that it was simple to deduce that Moriarty had taken your phone."

"Well, thank God for that."

"If Mycroft hadn't irritated me so much, I would have remembered that you weren't wearing your own coat at the pool. If it had, I wouldn't have texted you. My fault, sorry."

His apology made John uncomfortable. To start with, Sherlock  _never_  apologised. On the one hand, John was relieved that Sherlock would know that he would never come onto him like that. On the other hand, it did expose his own insecurities about what exactly his flatmate did think about him. Mycroft could hypothesise all he wanted, but John would only ever really believe Sherlock himself on the subject of their….relationship. And it was something they had never discussed.

The very word "relationship" felt odd. More than a friend, maybe even more than a 'best friend' but  _we're not a couple. I'm not his date. I'm not gay._ No matter how many times he repeated that loudly and frequently, people still kept drawing the wrong conclusion. Even Moriarty. So, what  _was_  their relationship?

John had been mortified by the whole ordeal at the pool. That Moriarty had humiliated him in front of Sherlock was part of it. That he had been used as a way of prying out of Sherlock a vulnerability, and making it obvious to Moriarty, was almost worse. He had been scared witless by the red dots dancing on Sherlock, who was quite capable of provoking even sane people into thoughts of killing him. But, John also realised that he was carrying into that confrontation with Moriarty some real anger at Sherlock and it was time to get it out on the table.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, Sherlock sighed and then stiffened his shoulders.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?"

The detective walked over to the wall and gestured angrily at the piece of paper at the extreme right hand side. It was on its own, with letters and numbers ringed in red, but it had strings connecting it to each of the other four A4 sheets in the middle. And they were connected to everything else on the wall. Sherlock said in a rather sad tone, " _That's_  the problem. And there is no bloody way around it."

He turned around and looked at John as if seeing him for the first time that night. "John, you are going to have to leave Baker Street, ideally tonight, or by tomorrow at the latest. If you want to stay at Sarah's tonight, I will pack up your things tomorrow and get them sent wherever you want." This was delivered in as mild a tone of voice as if he had been asking John to pick up another carton of milk.

John felt like the oxygen had just been sucked out of the room. After a moment to deal with his shock, he replied mildly "And just why have you come to such a conclusion without bothering to actually talk to me?"

Sherlock just gestured to the wall. "It's all there, the inescapable truth. If you stay, Moriarty will kill you, and before he does, he will use the threat of killing you to try to stop me from stopping him."

"Well, Sherlock, it doesn't take a genius detective to deduce another possible answer. Just don't try to stop him. Then maybe both of us can live to a ripe old age."

Sherlock tilted his head at John and looked perplexed. "You really think I would stop just because he threatened me?"

"Us, Sherlock, he threatened  _us._  And that is what I need to understand right now. What does 'us' mean to you? What is our …relationship? Because if I am going to be abducted by Chinese gangs, and wrapped in explosives on a regular basis, I need to know if that bothers you."

Sherlock drew back, pricked by John's tone of voice. "Bothers me? Yes, of course it bothers me. That's exactly why you should leave. Your presence here makes you a target and weakens me. I have to focus on the challenge that is coming, and can't afford any distractions. That's why you have to go." His tone was cold and dismissive.

John finally lost it. He closed the distance between them, intruded into Sherlock's personal space in a big way and stared up him, making no effort to hide how pissed off he was. "Sorry to be such an inconvenience. Wouldn't want to get in the way of your little love affair with that maniac, would I?"

Sherlock looked affronted.

"Yeah, I've been watching you ever since that bloody pink phone came out of the bomb rubble across the street. All those puzzles, you've been flattered that someone so clever went to all that trouble, just for you. Moriarty's hit every button that strokes your ego, and he has you right where he wants you. Shame he's a psychopath, you'd make such a lovely couple."

"What are you talking about, John? Moriarty is just another criminal, another case, he may be a bigger fish than our usual villain, and a damned sight harder to catch, but he is not infallible."

"Sherlock, he was  _flirting_  with you, he actually admitted it! He complimented you for 'coming the closest', Geez, you just lapped it up, didn't you? The guy is a monster, and you- damn it, I  _heard_  you when you said he was 'brilliant'. If you hadn't noticed, twelve people died because of your little game, and three other innocent civilians were terrorised- not to mention me. Doesn't that matter to you?"

"Oh, we're back at that again." Sherlock turned away. "My  _caring_  won't make a blind bit of difference. In fact, caring is what made it possible for Moriarty to escape from the pool, and I won't make that mistake again."

"And you think that pissing me off is the best way to take down Moriarty, do you? Haven't realised yet that this is precisely what he is trying to do- divide us, weaken us?"

Sherlock digested what John had said, and then turned back. Coldly, quietly, he replied "You forget that I've been solving crimes for years before you arrived on the scene; I don't need you."

_Well, that just takes the biscuit, doesn't it? He's put you in your place, John Watson. So much for being his 'one and only friend.' Once again, Mycroft gets it wrong._

John turned away in disgust.

He was half way to the kitchen when he stopped, and looked back at the detective. Then he started to shake his head. "Nope, it's not going to work."

His face took on a determined look. "I just don't buy it. You are doing this on purpose, being such a dick just to get me to leave. Well, you would know what buttons to push, after all your brother is the king of manipulators, isn't he, so it must run in the family. I've watched you do it often enough with suspects. Only a matter of time before you tried it on me. Sorry, but it won't work. I'm going to stick around to make sure that you don't succumb to Moriarty's charms. I won't let you push me away, just so you can go play more games. I am your  _friend,_  Sherlock, whatever you think of me.  _I_ won't abandon  _you_ ; one of us has to have a conscience."

"John, you know how much I loathe repeating myself. I've asked you to leave, and I expect you to be gone by tomorrow evening." The detective's voice was almost frigid, utterly devoid of emotion.

The doctor didn't say a word. He just sat down quietly in his chair, and sipped his tea. He opened his newspaper, and ignored Sherlock.

For a moment, nothing happened. Sherlock just stood there glaring at him. John carried on reading, hoping that calling his bluff would work, and that in the morning a more rational assessment would prevail.

Sherlock scowled. "Well, if you won't leave, then you can have Baker Street; enjoy the peace and quiet." Scooping up his coat and scarf, he thundering down the stairs and out the front door, all before John could put his tea down and get out of his chair.


	10. Homeless

By the time Sherlock reached the end of Baker Street, he had his route planned. Three minutes later, he disappeared from view, according to Mycroft's surveillance teams. The older Holmes was informed twenty minutes later, when he returned to the office from a meeting of the COBRA committee at Number 10. He replayed the footage of Sherlock's exchange with John, and tried to make sense of the close up photos of the wall above the sofa. "Anthea, Please get GCHQ to work on decoding that…shambles, please."

His call to the doctor was put through a few moments later.

"John, that was not _exactly_ what I was expecting from you."

The doctor's silence spoke volumes. When the door of 221b slammed behind Sherlock, John had been mortified. Far from strengthening his relationship with Sherlock, he had probably just blown everything, and he was now dealing with a rising sense of panic.

"Well, I guess it shows just how wrong you were about me being his one and only friend."

"On the contrary, John, what he said is confirmation of the fact that he does not want to risk your life, and thinks the best way of doing that is by chasing you away. Sherlock doesn't have normal relationships. Perversely, he may think getting you to hate him is the best way to protect you. If he didn't care whether you lived or died, then he would ignore you completely and let Moriarty try his worst. Your …ability to see through his efforts to push you away will have confused him. It may be that once he has a chance to think it over, he will realise that his leaving Baker Street is not a solution, because Moriarty will still be able to come after you. I have upped the protection teams around the flat accordingly."

"Have you done that for Sherlock, too? "

This time, it was Mycroft's silence that was revealing.

"Oh shit, you've lost him, haven't you? He's always said he could avoid your people if he really wanted to."

"We're working on that. We are also trying to figure out what that scrawl on the wall means. Any light you can shed on that would be gratefully appreciated, by the way. I will be in touch as soon as we come up with anything. In the meantime, don't do anything rash. Stay put at Baker Street. If you have to work tomorrow, call me and I will arrange for a car to pick you up and take you home- with a driver I trust, rather than letting you flag a cab down in the street. You will be under surveillance at the surgery, and we will have someone in the waiting room, suitably disguised should you need close protection. We have to assume that you are a target, and that Moriarty will not hesitate to use you to draw Sherlock out of hiding."

Those words echoed in John's mind for the rest of a sleepless night, when he wondered where his flatmate was. He turned his arm chair away from the fire and toward the wall. Half hidden under Sherlock's pieces of paper, the smiley face grinned at his growing frustration. After two hours of fruitless effort, he started to think that getting his gun out of its hiding place and shooting holes in the wall might be a reasonable way to deal with his frustration.  _The wall had it coming_  was how Sherlock had put it, and now John could agree. The letters and numbers made no sense to him, and the string connecting some bits to others was no help either.

The flat felt eerily silent and empty. Even when Sherlock was comatose on the couch or on the rare occasion asleep in his bedroom, John was still aware of his presence. When he was out on his own on a case or when John was working at the clinic, the doctor kept in touch with a text. He now stared balefully at Sherlock's laptop and phone, sitting on the coffee table. There would be no way to contact the detective until he wanted to make contact himself. No way to apologise, or to find a way to convince his flatmate to return.

John's increasingly stressed imagination provided him with a range of scenarios that all involved James Moriarty making good his threats against the detective.  _And here I am, doing bugger all to help him stay alive. What kind of a useless friend is that?_ He sighed, closed his eyes briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed a break before returning to look at the mess on the wall. At least he knew that the last one on the extreme right had something to do with him; Sherlock's conclusion seemed to stem from it.

oOo

Across the river and deep in one of London's least desirable neighbourhoods, Sherlock heaved his own sigh. This one was of relief, rather than frustration. Amidst abandoned warehouses, boarded up flats and the general detritus of urban dereliction, he had made it to one of his sanctuaries. This one was in a line of garages at the back of a small parade of boarded up shops. Despite its heavily dented and damaged door, his garage was the only one that actually still locked.

After recovering the key from a hiding place above the garage door four along from his, he slipped into his haven. He ditched his coat and scarf, stripped off his shirt and trousers, and rummaged through a pile of dusty black bags in a heap at the back of the garage. When he found the one he wanted, he ripped off the plastic tie, dumping its contents onto the floor: a torn pair of ancient and filthy jeans, dark hoodie sweatshirt from an army surplus store, well broken in old boots, complete with mud from south of the river in the treads, topped by a stained baseball cap and a cheap navy mac. He wrapped his good clothes, coat and scarf in the bag, and re-tied it, burying it amidst the heap of other rubbish bags full of junk at the back.

Sherlock opened the bottle of hair gel that had been in with the old clothes, and proceeded to change his appearance dramatically. He slicked back his curls, pushed his hair off his forehead, and slipped the now greasy strands behind his ears. A pedestrian taking a quick glance at him would assume his lank hair was unwashed for weeks, completing the homeless disguise. He smeared some of the dirt from the concrete floor onto his face and hands, to complete the camouflage.

He had six more of these sanctuaries scattered across London, bolt holes into which he could slip. In addition to dry clothes, most had a small stash of cash, some had tinned food, one an old mattress and candles, if he had to stay off the street for a while. This one had the added advantage of a pay as you go phone, with a wind up charger, so no need for a power connection. He furiously wound the crank of the charger for almost ten minutes, and was rewarded when the phone switched on and acquired a signal. He slipped the phone and charger into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt, along with the switchblade that had been in the jeans pocket. Finally, he looked down at the slim package lying on the floor, dumped there with the clothes.  _Waste not, want not_ , and shoved the glasses case into his pocket. Inside it he knew was a clean syringe, cotton, disposable lighter, spoon, and a small packet of white powder.

He pulled the cash from his wallet and stuffed it into his jeans pockets, and then hid the wallet behind a loose brick in the back wall of the garage. He could not use the credit cards; Mycroft would be able to trace any withdrawals. After his brother's last intervention against his cocaine use, Sherlock had vowed never, ever to get caught again. His sanctuaries were an insurance policy that if things ever broke down irretrievably with his sibling, he would be able to escape incarceration in yet another rehabilitation clinic.

He needed to disappear for as long as it took him to solve the 'John problem'. Somehow, he was going to have to figure a way to get the doctor to abandon his connection to Sherlock, to publicly break with him, and it would need to be done in such a way that Moriarty would believe. Exactly how to do that was going to take some very deep thinking. He locked the garage back up and headed out to resume his life as one of London's homeless.


	11. Holmesless

Four days and three even longer nights later, John was at breaking point. So was a certain detective's elder brother, who decided that there was one person even more annoying a sender of text messages than his little brother, and the doctor was it. Too many times in the first day and well into the night, John's texts came in begging for any information about Sherlock.

**7.20 am     Pls tell me that no news is good news and that you're making progress. Have you spotted him yet? -JW**

**8.00 am     Mycroft, the British Govt never sleeps; what's happening? -JW**

**8.10 am     He left both his phone and laptop behind. Ever known him to do that before? -JW**

**8.16 am     The last time he had anything to eat was three days ago. Didn't sleep through a night last week, must be getting to the end of his tether. Is there a 'go to' place when he is like this? -JW**

**9.00 am     Do you know where Moriarty is? More important, do you think Sherlock knows where he is? Tell me, pls. –JW**

**9.32 am     'You know who' says stop texting him unless it is an emergency or the prodigal returns. He needs to keep the line clear if his brother wants to call in from another phone. – Anthea**

Frustrated, John chose another tactic.

**9.51 am    Greg, have you seen Sherlock? Do you know where he is? Went AWOL last night, and I am getting concerned. –JW**

**9.57 am    Molly, is Sherlock at Barts? Can you check around if he isn't with you at the morgue? Went AWOL last night and I need to find him urgently. –JW**

But, neither Lestrade nor Molly had any news. She called, the detective inspector texted to that effect. John asked both to text him ASAP should Sherlock show up, without telling the detective that they had done so. He didn't want to frighten him off. Molly's reaction was an embarrassed stutter. "Oh, …did you two have a fight, or …something?" Lestrade was more pragmatic. "Before you arrived on the scene, the silly bugger used to do it all the time; going off in snit, usually over some problem or other with his brother. The only trouble was that often ended up in him getting high. The number of times I had to babysit as he came down; God, I hope he isn't starting that business all over again!"

On the first day, John tried to be patient. Sherlock had walked out on him in a strop before, even though it was John who most often found it useful to 'get some air' when the friction between the two men soured the atmosphere in the flat. Usually an overnight was enough to restore their equilibrium. Leaving his phone at the flat meant that if Sherlock wanted to submerge himself in another case, he would have to either return and retrieve it, or turn up at New Scotland Yard. John found himself praying that a juicy, triple murder by a serial killer would hit the headlines, and whet Sherlock's appetite.  _God, what have I come to when I start wishing for a homicide as a way to find him?_

As the next day wore on to the day after that, John kept to his usual pattern, and met his shift obligations at the clinic. Sarah stopped by his office on the second day, poking her head in and asking "everything alright?" John's reply "fine, just fine" didn't seem to placate her, and he wondered if he was losing his touch at being able to handle his stress. Sherlock's absence made John nervous, and he was beginning to realise why. Of course, the doctor feared that Moriarty might make a move; after the poolside threats, that was an obvious issue. But as the days wore on, John started to fear that less, and worry more about what Sherlock might be doing on his own. It was that part of the map of Sherlock that John had yet to experience.  _Here be dragons_  is what they used to put down when the knowledge of navigators ran out. For John that was Sherlock's drug abuse. Both Lestrade and Mycroft had travelled with Sherlock in this uncharted territory. John was worried now because he could see their anxiety.

By the third day, the clinic staff were giving him a wide berth, handling him with kid gloves because he was making less and less effort to hide his grumpy mood. He called Lestrade and asked him to meet up after work at the Feathers pub down the road from New Scotland Yard. His minder from Mycroft escorted him there, and took up a position on the bar stool, a discrete distance from the doctor. When Greg arrived, he found John halfway through his first pint of bitter, and looking glum. But, it didn't take him long to catch up, and then he too became equally glum. They sat in miserable silence for a while, until eventually John asked, "You said he used to do this, buggering off. Tell me why he did that and what happened?"

Greg stared at his pint for a while. "He's got form, you know that already. That 'pretend drugs bust' you witnessed on your first night at Baker Street wasn't always pretend. The first time I ever clapped eyes on him, a homeless skinny seventeen year old, he was high. Next time we met, he was 22 and drugs were also involved. On and off over the years we've actually worked together, I've had to ban him from crime scenes four times until he could get clean and stay that way."

"Why? I want to know why!" John banged the table with his fist. He was angry at the very idea; it seemed so preposterous. "I just don't understand how someone with such an extraordinary brain could choose such a self-destructive thing. What triggered it in the first place? If I can understand that, then maybe I can stop worrying about it now." John's face betrayed his confusion and worry.

"As if I ever knew what went on in Sherlock's head!? But I know it goes deep. Mycroft pushed him through rehab twice, and it wasn't just to get him clean; there was therapy to try to deal with the causes, but Sherlock never, ever talked about it with me. It broke his trust in his brother, so when he fell off the wagon after that, I was the one who offered my sofa. Cocaine withdrawal is different from heroin; doesn't take as long, and not so many gruesome side effects. But, depression, anxiety and agitation? Yeah- in Sherlock sized portions of all three. It isn't easy, and I've seen him in a bad way too many times to think that he won't ever succumb again.”

The DI leaned across the table and said quietly, "this bomber thing has got him and his brother pretty worked up. In fact, this morning was the second worst I’ve ever seen Mycroft since he collected the homeless junkie teenager I threw into a cell. The worst time was when Sherlock OD'd on purpose. That was a night I'd like to forget. And, no, I won't talk about it. If Sherlock wants you to know, then he will have to tell you himself." With that comment, the Detective Inspector picked up his glass and downed the rest of the pint. "I want another round. You look like you need one, too." He got up and went to the bar, leaving John staring in dismay at his own glass.

John tried to digest what Lestrade had said. This wasn't recreational use then. He knew cocaine's reputation as a party drug; he had thought Sherlock might have been one of those who succumbed to it as a spoiled posh kid at university with more money than sense. The detective's words made that idea seem ridiculous. He knew for certain that the detective had not used drugs while John was there. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did.  _But that doesn't mean he won't now, does it, especially as I've chased him away from his own home?_  He picked up his glass and emptied the last of the glass of bitter.

The pub had filled up with regulars from the surrounding office blocks, whose workers were now on their way home. Their genial conversations in the background sat uncomfortably with John's despairing mood. When the DI returned with two fresh pints, John decided that he needed to focus on the practical issues. "So, where does he go to get his drugs? And if he isn't at Baker Street, where will he go to sleep it off?"

"That's the bad news, John. Mycroft will have had all the usual dealers under surveillance for the past three days. And Sherlock used to always go to the same area to doss down, because he knew he would be safe with his contacts in the homeless. They look after him. This time around, if Mycroft hasn't found him already, then he doesn't want to be found. None of our informants on the streets have seen him."

John's heart sank. "I don't suppose any clues showed up at the crime scene at the pool, anything that would help us figure out where Moriarty is?"

"According to Mycroft, I shouldn't even be mentioning that guy's name." The look on Greg's face was enough to show John that he didn't have any new information. 

"OK, let's speculate here", John said, trying to keep focused. "Sherlock doesn't want to be found, not by Mycroft or by Moriarty. You may think I am naïve, but my hope is that he wouldn't run to drugs- at least not yet- because surely that would make him more vulnerable to being taken- by either his brother or Moriarty. He cares more about _The Game_ as he calls it than the drugs. He's just not the type to throw in the towel, Greg, and I've never known Sherlock to be anything but brave. Crazy, foolhardy, impulsive, yes, but certainly not a coward. I don't think he is running away. He won't duck a confrontation; he is arrogant enough to think he can  _win_  this one."

Lestrade looked appalled. "God, I hope you are wrong. Drugs aren't half as likely to kill him as a straight fight with that nutter will." The older man sat back in his chair, and ran his hands wearily though his silver hair. "I really, really hope this doesn't become a worst case scenario. Cocaine users lose inhibitions and take more risks- and that is not something Sherlock can afford to do with this nutter."

John's chin came up and a soldier's glint came into his eye. "Then I am going to find him, and make sure that he's clean, and that he isn't the only one taking that psycho on."

The doctor decided to leave half the second half of his pint on the table, because he wanted to be sober enough to keep working on how to find Sherlock. After making his farewell to Lestrade, John was followed out discretely by his bodyguard, who pointed out the car discretely parked around the corner. Once dropped off at Baker Street, he went up the stairs hoping to find a comatose detective stretched out on the sofa, or at least some sign that Sherlock had come back to the flat at all.

After being greeted by the silence of an empty flat, the doctor's imagination led him down two equally unpleasant paths. Either Sherlock was considering how to take on Moriarty single-handed, or he was succumbing to whatever demons possessed the detective when he wasn't able to work on cases. If it was the former, John was livid at being left behind, when Sherlock would need him the most. If it was the latter, then John would be equally livid, because as long as they’d been living together, the detective had never gone so far as to take his boredom 'elsewhere'. As John chewed over the possibilities, he could not avoid feeling guilty that his mishandling of the situation might have tipped Sherlock over the edge. Fear and worry combined to keep him wide awake for the rest of the night.

On the fourth morning, Mycroft's text was brief

**7.18 am    No news is just that, no news. Sit tight. We are doing everything we can. –MH**

_That’s easy for you to say, Mycroft._ John decided that he could no longer do that. Work was just impossible when he could think of little else than what might be happening to Sherlock. So, he called Sarah and asked for a day off, "to get my head together", he said. Sarah sounded relieved. "Good, we've all been walking on eggshells the last couple of days wondering what's gotten into you. Do what you need to do and tell me tomorrow what the prognosis is for your return."

At eight o'clock, John used Sherlock's exit strategy, the one he called "get out of Baker Street without Mycroft knowing about it", which involved a climb out of his bedroom window onto 221's rooftop and then across four buildings before finding a fire escape that took him down into a back garden, through a gate and onto Kenrick Place, parallel to Baker Street. A short distance away he disappeared down into the underground and on his way to Waterloo Station. He knew it would only be a matter of time before CCTV caught up with him, but he hoped that in the interval he'd be able to connect with some of Sherlock's homeless network. His surveillance team just might be sensible enough to let him to this and discrete enough to avoid scaring off the people he wanted to contact. Maybe they would be able to find Sherlock. It was a lot of maybes, but sitting at home was just killing him. If Mycroft was the problem, putting out a message through the network that John wanted to meet Sherlock might just get him some reassurance that the detective was out there and OK, even if he didn't want to talk to his brother.

He walked from Waterloo station down through the underpasses that surround the IMAX cinema. He was looking for a particular person. Sherlock had contacted her when he was looking for the Golem. A twenty pound note in a piece of paper with his scribbled handwriting was all it had taken, and John had prepared something similar now.

After nearly twenty minutes of wandering and looking rather more intently than most pedestrians at the homeless people he encountered, he was ready to admit defeat. He had tried to talk to a few of them; most of whom ignored him completely. When he tried harder with one young man, he was told to "piss off, do gooder." Even when he dropped change into whatever they were using to solicit, they consciously avoided eye contact. Frustrated, he walked through to the Embankment, and watched the river. He wondered if his minders had caught up with him yet. That's when the doctor realised that the young woman he was looking for was sitting on a concrete bench up one of the stairs to the Jubilee footbridge.

Instead of approaching her directly, he remembered how Sherlock had done it. _Just sit down on the far end of the bench, don't look too interested._ He talked quietly, keeping his eyes on the pedestrians below walking on the Embankment.

"I don't know if you remember me, but I came with Sherlock that time he dropped off a note to you- he was looking for someone, and you spread the word for him through the network."

There was a pause, then a quiet… "I might; what of it?"

"I need to do the same now. But, Sherlock's the one I'm looking for. My friend is in danger, and I need to contact him." He reached over with the cash wrapped up in the note.

She just laughed and waved his hand away. "Forget it. If Siggy's come back to us, then no one like you will find him, and we won't help you."

"I know I can't find him on my own; that's the reason I've come to you." The doctor kept his voice quiet and calm. "Why  _Siggy_?" he said conversationally, "Is that what you call Sherlock, a 'street' name?"

She snorted. "It's his choice. Nobody who's homeless ever uses their old name. That's the whole point, ain't it? We leave all that shit behind. No history, no family, we get to choose a name of our own, not one given to us by others, so no way to be traced by social services, the filth, the enemy."

There was something in her tone of voice that made John look at her directly. Older than you might think at first glance under badly cut, garishly dyed magenta hair. She was painfully thin, with skin that screamed bad diet, malnutrition, and drug abuse. She glowered back at him. "You just don't get it, do you? He's one of us. Always been, always will be. Oh, he can play in the RL, but he comes back when something you people do pisses him off. And there is no one in our world who knows Siggy who will betray him. He's safe with us."

John tried to make sense of what the girl said. "RL, what's that?"

The girl now looked straight at him, as if not believing he could be so dense. "Real Life. It's what you like to think of as the world. Not to us, it ain't. Now piss off; you’re getting annoying."

John lowered the hand that had been offering the note. He pulled out his pen, and crossed out the original message. He turned over the piece of paper, and scrawled something new.

Looking off into the distance, he said, "Forget what I said about …Siggy. Take this and ask around for Raz. He owes me one; I took an ASBO for him. Tell him I need to talk to him, tonight, if at all possible, back at Baker Street."

He put the note and the cash on the concrete bench between him and the girl, walking away without a backward glance to see if she had taken it.

Once he had walked back down the stairs and out of her sight, the same agent that had given Mycroft John's new phone came up beside John and walked him to a waiting black car. "For your protection; you've been too visible, sir." The agent was right; John's departure was watched by another observer, who pulled out his phone and hit speed dial.


	12. Decisions. Decisions

Five miles away, Sherlock shifted his shoulders against the tiled wall of the underpass, trying to deal with the itch that had blossomed there last night. Fleas were as common as rats; both were a threat to the homeless, a fact which he had inconveniently deleted since his last sojourn amongst the debris of London. Rats were more of a problem at night, when most street people were dossing down and asleep. For him, rats were less of a worry, as he had not been sleeping much at all, just the odd cat nap. During the day, it was the fleas that annoyed him more because the itch disturbed his concentration when he was deep in his mind palace.

He had considered staying in a derelict house, but oddly enough, spending time in places where other people were not often seen was almost a sure way of attracting the attention of those who were looking for him. He needed to hide in plain sight; where there were lots of ordinary people, walking by lots of homeless. He'd chosen a run-down shopping area in Peckham, away from his usual haunts. He knew far fewer homeless people south of the river, down here he'd have a better chance of blending into the background, not being spotted. Most eyes looked straight past him, scarcely registering his presence. Those who did glance briefly before looking away saw a slumped figure on a dirty blanket. It was the perfect disguise.

The frustration was that, despite the hours of thinking, Sherlock was no nearer a solution than he had been when he left Baker Street. He was tired, a bit hungry and definitely cold. More annoying was the fact that he kept thinking about what was in the glasses case snuggled into the pocket of his sweatshirt. He knew the drug would renew his energy, help him focus, suppress his appetite and make him oblivious to the chill that was settling in his bones. It might even make him happier, or at least less mindful of the conclusion that he kept coming to, no matter how many times he avoided it.

He sighed. Cravings were something that plagued him regularly, but he had been able to ignore them over the past two years because of the case work, and the presence of his flatmate. Ever since the pretend drugs bust, John had made it clear that using at the flat was not acceptable, and he was a good enough doctor to spot signs of it if his flatmate indulged elsewhere. And, quite frankly, his brother's surveillance had become more intense as their cases had become more important.

And that was also part of the problem. John's blog had not only attracted the attention of potential clients, it made it clear to anyone who wanted to observe that the doctor had become an integral part of the detective's work. So, despite bringing Sherlock a better standard of case, it had also brought the attention of Moriarty to the blogger. Somehow, he had to get John to stop working with him, and move out of Baker Street, for his own safety.

But, deep down Sherlock did not want to have to do either of those things. His friendship with the doctor was important to him. He remained baffled as to why John had tolerated his oddness, his foibles and lack of social skills.  _Any sane person would have pissed off by now, or told me to._  Even when Sherlock tried to push John out the door four nights ago by acting even more obnoxious than usual, John had seen through it and refused to go.

Briefly, Sherlock wondered if taking the drugs in his pocket and then turning up at the flat might do the trick of disgusting John and getting him to leave. But, the likely consequence of that tactic would be to push his brother into locking Sherlock into another term of rehabilitation. And he couldn't guarantee that John wouldn't snap into doctor mode, treating Sherlock as a wayward patient, defeating the whole purpose of the exercise.

There must be another way. He slipped the hood down and pulled at his hair in frustration. His hands came away greasy, and he grimaced. He now wore a genuine veneer of grime and body odour that was perfect camouflage, but it was as disgusting to him as it was to those who walked by him.

Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. Maybe the best defence was to go on the offence. Fraught with risk maybe, but a full frontal approach would require Sherlock to find Moriarty himself and take whatever steps were necessary to stop the man. His brother would probably half kill him, if the Irishman did not succeed completely in doing it first.

Sherlock had killed in self-defence before, but he had never purposefully set out with murder in mind, even of someone as patently evil as Moriarty. If he was successful, there could be legal consequences that even his brother might struggle to cover up. Add to that, John would be furious at the detective taking on his archenemy without having him there as back-up.  _But, if I did survive, then at least John would be alive to shout at me. And if I do not survive, then John will be safe because Moriarty could not use him as a way of getting at me. And Mycroft will be satisfied because I can no longer be used as a weapon against him._ Not exactly a 'win-win' situation, but at least the most important objective- keeping John alive- would be achieved whatever the outcome.

He found himself wondering about why he would come to that assessment about John. Sherlock had never had a  _friend_  before. He judged most people in terms of what they could do for him. He didn't do 'relationships'; despite years of trying, Mycroft realised that Sherlock would not make much effort to modify his behaviour to satisfy his brother. Mummy had taught him how to channel a lot of his natural behaviours into more socially acceptable actions, and he had done so because she showed him how much more successful he'd be at getting what he wanted. She did not judge his behaviour, she just accepted him for what he was, and showed him how to do it better.

Under her tutelage, Sherlock had developed a talent for mimicry that meant he could now  _appear_ to be normal, even if his motivations for doing so were most often manipulative. A faked smile could get Molly to grant him access and privileges at Barts' morgue, so Sherlock deployed it. He could manipulate emotions like tears, anger or even fake compassion to get what he needed from suspects and witnesses. Controlling (just) his sarcasm and ridicule for the police got him access to Lestrade's crime scenes. Putting up with his brother's intrusive surveillance was marginally more tolerable than having to live with Mycroft and explain what he was doing all the time. He had not managed to cope with close proximity to anyone until John came along; his tolerance for some of Sherlock's more extreme foibles made him a welcome change from most people's "piss off" reaction. More than that, however, John had become useful to Sherlock's work, and finally, an integral part of it. Sherlock enjoyed cases without John, but work was just  _better_  when the doctor was there to share it.

A pedestrian passing by the dishevelled figure in the grimy hoodie stooped briefly to drop a pound coin in the Styrofoam cup that Sherlock had placed by his blanket. People assumed all homeless people were beggars, so it was part of the disguise. He did not bother to say thank you; he wanted to avoid any conversation with do-gooders who might try to persuade him to get off the drugs, go to a local hostel or otherwise interfere. He did not understand their motivations, because they did not understand his. All he had ever wanted when he was living on the streets was to be left alone.

Sherlock knew that he did not experience  _feelings_ in the way most people did, so why did it matter so much to him that John did not become a victim of Moriarty? He had spent a considerable amount of time in his mind palace over the past few days trying to understand it. He was tempted at first to just dismiss it all as the consulting criminal's own attempt to manipulate Sherlock. The poolside experience, however, had proved to be a revelation for the detective. He did not want John to be targeted this way, to be harmed.  _It annoyed him_. That reaction was a surprise for Sherlock.

What was it about John? Sherlock had come to realise that John was  _good_ , a good person. He watched other people with whom the detective worked respond to John with warmth and affection. Mrs Hudson had welcomed the doctor with open arms. Mycroft was generally highly suspicious of anyone with whom Sherlock associated at university and after, but clearly the former army captain had passed muster. Lestrade was happy to spend time with John on a social basis, propping up a pub bar with him because he enjoyed the army doctor's company. By watching the reactions of others, Sherlock came to understand this good, this fundamental something about John.

Sherlock had no misconceptions about his own goodness. His father had made it abundantly clear that his second son was deficient in so many ways that he should consider himself fortunate not to have been locked away permanently, if not strangled at birth. Unlike Mummy, his father  _judged_ and Sherlock came up wanting almost every time. As an adult, he had come to realise that his father was probably right, based on how the rest of the world reacted to Sherlock. People at school, university and after who came into contact with Sherlock did not often willingly seek his company a second time.

Uniquely, John did not judge him, or at least not to the same extent. Yes, he clearly had issues with body parts in the fridge, misappropriation of his 'personal property', and Sherlock's more extreme measures for dealing with boredom. But, John's threshold of pain was clearly higher than most people with whom Sherlock came into contact. He was continually surprised that he had not managed to scare the doctor off yet, even now when it would have been sensible for John to leave Baker Street. More important, Sherlock had learned to trust John's instincts; little asides ("not good?") helped the detective navigate the uncharted waters of normal social interactions. And he was better for it, more effective in his work with clients, with the police, and even with his brother. So, John was a  _good thing_  for Sherlock. And, he had become possessive of the doctor as a result.  _Mine, he's mine, how dare you wrap my John in your bomb!_ was the subtext running though Sherlock's mind all through the poolside incident.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He realised that a decision had been reached, a choice had been made. Mycroft would be furious, and not just at the risk to Sherlock. The detective knew that Moriarty was probably going to try to use him to get at Mycroft. The difference is that Sherlock knew for certain that when it came to it, his brother would put 'Queen and Country' before any familial loyalties. If push came to shove, he was willing to lay his own life on the line to buy John's safety, and to hell with his brother. To turn his plan into action, what he needed to do now was get cleaned up, change back into his proper clothes and get in touch with Moriarty.

_I gave you my number…I thought you'd call,_ the Irishman had said in that odd pouting tone when he was teasing Sherlock by the pool. In fact, because Moriarty had John's phone, Sherlock had a direct line to the consulting criminal. The consulting detective stood up and stretched out his aches, pocketed the loose change from the cup and strode away from the flea-ridden blanket. Anyone watching now would have seen the despair of the homeless replaced by a new light of resolve and determination on his face.


	13. Chapter 13

"What do you mean, you can't find him?"

The question was mildly raised, but Sebastian knew that it was only a matter of time before the anger would emerge. He set himself a little more squarely, resting his weight over the balls of his feet before replying, "Well, if the whole of the British surveillance system can't track him down, it is clearly not as simple as we thought it would be."

" _WE_ …?" Moriarty's irritation was beginning to creep into his tone of voice.

"Ok, sorry, ….as _I_  thought it would be."

"That's better. Unlike you, I don't underestimate Sherlock now. I kind of think I did to start with, but then I so rarely have any intelligent people around me that it's not surprising. But, unlike you, I learn from my mistakes. I don't assume that Sherlock is as stupid as 'the whole of the British surveillance system' is. But, then  _you_  were once part of that military machine, so how can I expect you to rise above their general level of incompetence?" His sarcasm dripped like venom.

That was more like the boss he knew. Sebastian was under no illusions. His work with Moriarty was extremely well rewarded, but it needed to be.  _Combat pay_. When the detective disappeared on the night of the poolside confrontation, Moran told Moriarty that Sherlock had probably run to his brother for protective custody.

"No, no, no- why am I surrounded by  _IDIOTS_! If Mycroft Holmes had squirreled Sherlock away somewhere, he'd have put the doctor there, too, you imbecile." Moriarty had thrown it all back in Sebastian's face.

Moriarty continued now, ridiculing his subordinate's lack of intelligence. "Come on now, Sebbie- daddy's getting bored by your stupidity! The fact that Holmes Senior is keeping the doctor in play, although well protected, is evidence enough that Holmes Junior has given him the slip as well as us. He's just using Watson as bait, dangling him in the wind, to force Sherlock into coming back. "

"So, do what you usually do. Do I have to tell you how to do your job? Just get Watson and apply some pressure; Sherlock will come running. He's done it before, he'll do it again, surely." Moriarty sniffed. That was the trouble; just when he thought he might have found someone to play with who could really be interesting, the person turned out to have feet of clay. The little soldier was Sherlock's weakness. Jim contemplated another former soldier now standing in front of him, and thought- _never in a million years would I consider giving up anything to protect this one._ Moran had his uses, and Jim liked to tease him occasionally with the idea that he might mean more, but it was never done with anything but the most manipulative of intents.

Moran now shifted uncomfortably. "Well, that's just the thing. Baker Street is crawling with agents. They've stopped relying on cameras, there are people watching back and front, and enough armed resource on the street to make a move very tough. They aren't hiding it either. We've managed to piggy back one of his brother's cameras, but it's pretty useless, as there's no one in the flat for the target to have a conversation with, apart from the old bat downstairs. You said, a  _watching_  brief, so while we've not taken any action, they've cranked up the protection to the point where it is much more difficult."

Moriarty sighed. "Baaaa….I am surrounded by sheep. If you thought about it for more than two minutes, you'd have known that an early strike would be more successful. What's stopping you now from making a grab for him at work? Or are you scared of a few nurses and little old ladies in a GP's waiting room? Why are you incapable of showing any initiative?"

"Well, sorry, boss, but I do take your orders seriously, and you said a  _watching_  brief. Anyway it's too late; the only intel of any use came this morning, when we learned that Watson's stopped going into work now. That narrows our options down. To get the doctor out of the flat unharmed now will involve gunfire. And, if he is killed, we're stuffed. Even if we do manage to get him, Sherlock has left his phone and his laptop behind at the flat. There's no forwarding address to send a ransom note...so, how the hell are we going to tell him that we've got Watson?"

Moriarty's eyes lit up and the corner of his mouth quirked up. "He's clearly smarter than you are, enough to realise that if we can't contact him, then a kidnap won't work. Clever boy!" He clapped his hands in glee, beaming that sinister smile at Sebastian. "On that basis, I'll bet Sherlock is definitely NOT watching the flat. What he doesn't know can't be used against him. If I were him, I'd just rely on big brother to keep an eye on the doctor. And, to make it work, Sherlock will be out of reach of everyone, including his brother and the police. See, Sebastian, what a superior intelligence is able to do?" Moriarty came up to Moran and started poking him in the chest, as if to punctuate his points.

"It's called thinking ahead"  _poke_.

"Anticipation",  _prod_.

"Strategy",  _shove_.

Jim sighed and shook his head. "Not much up there under that blonde hair of yours, is there, Tiger?"

Despite his disgust with his subordinate, Moriarty was actually jubilant. Sherlock's cleverness had put Moriarty in almost the exact same position as Mycroft Holmes- neither of them had the ability to flush the detective out of hiding. He paced the rented office suite and could hardly keep the smirk off his face. The little brother was turning out to be much more interesting an opponent rather than just a means to another end. It was no longer about using the consulting detective to blackmail a certain minor British civil servant into joining his I.O.U list.  _Stalemate_.  _Oooh- what fun!_

Moran's phone rang. He answered it and Jim listened to the one-sided conversation.

"Yes?"

"You're on him now?"

"Make the snatch."

"HOW CAN YOU BE SO INCOMPETENT!?"

Moran shouted this last statement, and then cut the call. "Watson went down to Waterloo, spent twenty minutes sniffing around homeless people. My man had just got reinforcements there to make a move, when Holmes' people caught up with Watson and got him into a car and safety. We've probably just missed the only real chance of getting him into our possession."

"WE'VE just missed? You mean YOU'VE just missed a chance!" The time, Moriarty was a lot louder. He grabbed Seb's chin and twisted, making the soldier twitch at the sheer effort needed to hold back his automatic reflex to attack. "That could be a very costly mistake, my dear. Daddy's going to get very angry if you keep being so USELESS!"

The Irishman released his grip on the soldier. "I'm going home to have lunch. You'd better have an idea of what you're going to do next by the time I call you back." He stormed out of the room. Sebastian just glared at the office door when it slammed, thinking about how he would take out his anger on the underling who had let him down so badly. There would be blood, and pain; a lot of both were needed to restore his equilibrium. Only then would he be able to think about what he could do to satisfy his boss.

Moriarty had calmed down by the time he reached his Docklands penthouse. He switched on the sound system and the mellow tones of Yo Yo Ma's cello filled the living room. He changed his clothes, hanging up the Westwood suit and switching to more casual attire, trousers and a cashmere sweater from Ozwald Boatang. He started to prepare his lunch. He liked to cook; handling the ceramic knife with professional ease, he cut up the vegetables and sliced wafer thin slivers of Kobe Wagu beef, marinading them in rice wine and dark soy sauce. He opened a bottle of 1988 Chateau Latour and decanted it. In an hour and a half's time, the beef would be ready to stir fry and the wine would have breathed its way to perfection. He set out the fine china plate and the crystal wine glass, the sterling silver cutlery. Good food deserved proper presentation.

As the first movement of Elgar's cello concerto ended, that moment of silence before the second movement began was broken by the vibration of a mobile phone set on mute. It wasn't his own phone. Frowning briefly, he crossed the thick pile rug to pick up John Watson's phone _. Surely they know I've got this by now?_ Incoming text. He did not recognise the number, but opened it anyway.

**12.18 pm    I'm bored with waiting. Stalemates are tedious. Shall we meet? -SH**

Moriarty raised his eyes to the ceiling and a big smile just grew until it took up his whole face. Ecstasy! Sherlock was such a wonderful surprise. Far from cowering somewhere waiting for big brother to sort things out, the detective was coming to negotiate. What fun! Could the man be as brilliant as he was gorgeous? Moriarty felt a thrill he had not felt in years. Could it be, at last, that he had found someone worthy of his attentions? He hit the reply button and started to type.

**12.20 pm    Great minds think alike! Tell me where to send my car. JM**

**12.22 pm    Underground car park of the Tower Bridge hotel at one o'clock.**

_Clever boy, you don't want big brother to know about this, do you?_  Moriarty could see Sherlock's thinking; no CCTV to alert anyone.  _Or is that what you want me to think, while you are going to be wearing a GPS device? Or maybe your brother has micro-chipped you like his favourite Labrador?_  It was such fun to be challenged by someone who was actually not predictable. Moriarty pulled out his own phone and called Sebastian. "Put your best suit on, Seb, and get yourself here. I've got company coming, and I need your services. Watch how the big boys play, soldier, you might learn something." Their conversation lasted another five minutes, just long enough to set things in motion.

Moments after one o'clock his driver texted him:

**13.02 pm    Cargo on board. Scan says no GPS**

As he set a second place at the table, Moriarty hummed along to the crescendo of Elgar's final movement, deciding whether it would be tacky or tasteful to switch to violin music in honour of his guest. Perhaps the Bach D Minor Partita, performed by Yehudi Menuhin in 1934? Truly monumental performance, and Sherlock might be impressed at his taste as well as diminished by the knowledge that his amateurish plucking would never approach the dizzy heights of a true maestro _. Just so, let's remind him that he isn't able to play at this level._  This lunch had all the attributes of a seduction, and why not? Moriarty was bemused by the concept. He put the rice on. Traffic willing, Sherlock would be joining him in about twenty minutes. He turned up the gas under the wok and started to line up his raw ingredients for cooking, humming in anticipation.


	14. Reconnaissance

Moriarty's driver parked in the underground car park of one of Docklands most prestigious apartment buildings. He escorted Sherlock to a private key-operated elevator, and gestured him inside. The detective looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the lift and gave his most insincere smile. The doors opened onto an anteroom, where he was greeted by a man in a sharp suit that did little to disguise his muscular build, his concealed weapon, and his definite air of menace.

"Oh dear, I see he has problems recruiting a proper butler," Sherlock quipped as he slipped off his coat and scarf, handing them to a nonplussed Moran. Exuding total confidence, he walked straight past the man and opened the door to the apartment. Moriarty was by the window looking out on the towers of Canary Wharf and the Thames beyond, the soft strains of Menuhin's violin playing in the background.

Sherlock looked around the apartment. He noted the expense, but also the taste that went into the furniture, the paintings, the way that the décor exuded power and privilege, but without being overbearing. What surprised him was that it showed an aesthetically restrained appreciation that he would not have predicted for the Irishman. Was it his taste, or had he simply appropriated someone else's when he acquired the space? Still, that he would appreciate the restraint was...interesting.  The effect of It was rather spoiled, however, when the bodyguard followed him into the room.

Moriarty was playing the host. "Hope you like the place, Sherlock. It's much more civilized to meet here than at that beastly pool. The stench of all that chlorine, not to mention those locker rooms. Brought back all sorts of bad school memories of gym socks and sweaty feet, didn't it?"

Sherlock just fixed his eyes on Moran when he replied. "Your sniper here rather lowers the tone."

"Sherlock Holmes meet Sebastian Moran, briefly, that is, as three's a crowd. Once the formalities are concluded, Moran's got a stint of KP duty to do." Moriarty gestured to Moran, who approached Sherlock and gave him a thorough search for concealed weapons. He removed Sherlock's phone and keys from his jacket pocket, a fountain pen and knife, and then picked up an electronic device from the side table and used it to scan the detective thoroughly. "No bugs, no tracker, no nothing, sir."

Moriarty was eyeing Sherlock rather critically. "Not your usual sartorial standards, Sherlock; you look a little  _rumpled._ " He sniffed. "I assume you've managed to wash off the street grime, but if you'd care to freshen up a bit, there is everything you need in the bathroom off the guest bedroom. Show him where, Sebastian, that's a good boy, while I finish off our meal."

Sherlock welcomed the opportunity. He'd collected his good clothes from the lock up, showered and changed at a leisure centre south of London Bridge, but he took advantage of the bathroom's disposable toothbrush and razor, and pushed his unruly hair into some semblance of order. The soap was an Italian brand he recognised, from Florence. It smelled wonderfully of black figs.

When he emerged fifteen minutes later, it was to see Moriarty pouring two glasses of wine. The detective spied the wine cork on the table, and waited to see if his host would brag about the Bordeaux chateau or the vintage. When the Irishman did neither, he revised his estimation of the man upward yet again, as the pair sat down at the glass-topped dining table.

Moran's irritation at playing servant was barely controlled when he delivered the platter of food to the table. The look he gave Sherlock was pure venom. Moriarty just rolled his eyes, "Now, Seb, you get back into that kitchen and get started on all those pots and pans needing to be cleaned up. I know you'd rather be cleaning your gun, but you've got to develop a side line as I don't need someone killed every day. Besides, I just  _love_  to see a military man dressed up in an apron."

As the door into the kitchen slammed, Moriarty said apologetically to Sherlock, "Well, it's so hard to get good staff these days. I'm sure you're fed up with having to deal with the plods at New Scotland Yard. I can tell you that criminals are not all that smart either. It's a wonder why you and I don't go mad having to deal with these idiots all the time."

As he lifted his chopsticks, Moriarty asked curiously "You called him my sniper. Tell me how did you know Seb was at the pool? Go on, you know you're dying to show off to daddy."

"I could smell him."

Moriarty looked surprised. "Despite all that chlorine?"

"He wears a cheap brand of aftershave, which combines badly with his sweat to create a uniquely repulsive scent. He's also got gun oil on his hands, an occupational hazard for an assassin. He was probably cleaning his weapon when you called him to rush over here, because now he is hot and bothered, although that might be because you're enjoying embarrassing him by making him act like a house servant. You made him dress up today so you'd have thought the stink would be masked a bit, but actually he should send his suit to the cleaners more often. Shouldn't try to dress up an animal in nice clothes, never works. Same smell now as then at the pool. Mind you, I don't think he likes me very much, does he?" Sherlock's deduction was delivered blazingly fast.

Moriarty smirked at Sherlock, "Well, no, I'd agree with you there. And you might want to worry just a tad about that fact. Seb's a right mean bastard, and he loves killing people. He felt a little cheated at the pool. I promised him blood, so he was annoyed at having to restrain himself."

 _So, he's the one that probably cut John with the knife._ "They say memory and smell are intimately linked; I have a good memory. There is research that says psychopaths have a poor sense of smell. How's yours?"

"Fine, just dandy. I can smell my soap on you, Sherlock."

Sherlock kept his demeanour aloof. He waited for Moriarty to serve himself from the platter first, and then put a smaller portion on his own plate. Again, he waited for the Irishman to eat first, before picking up his chopsticks and starting himself.

"Oh, really, Sherlock- as if I would try to poison or drug you! Jesus and the saints above, give me some fecking credit. It would be a scandalous waste of this amazing beef, don't you think?"

The pair ate in silence, accompanied by the music in the background. Sherlock was hungry- it had been nearly a week since his last proper meal, and the little food he had scrounged from the back of a fast food restaurant after closing hours was scarcely edible. This, on the other hand, was extraordinarily good. He concentrated on the plate of food, the view down the river and the music, consciously avoiding eye contact with his host.

Moriarty had no such scruples. He watched his guest with rapt attention. He took in the minute clues that told him Sherlock was sleep deprived, on edge, and only just managing to keep his adrenaline under control. He also enjoyed the view- the man's cheekbones were really quite extraordinary. And that mouth was almost ridiculously plush. The Irishman was rarely attracted to conventional beauty in either male or female- so tedious when external attributes could not compensate for the inevitable intellectual inferiority. Looking at the pale skin and lean physique of the man sharing his table, he thought it might be fun to explore further his physical reactions to the detective.

"Hmmm, nice to see that you do have an appetite," he drawled suggestively. Moriarty was looking at the detective's empty plate with pleasure.

Sherlock ignored him, drank some of the wine, and let it sit in his mouth for a moment to enjoy the superb balance of tannins, fruit and acidity, enhanced by the wood aging. He swallowed, and used the linen napkin to wipe his mouth. Leaving the napkin unfolded on the table, he pushed himself back in the chair, signalling that he was finished.

"Shall we turn to the business at hand, then?" His baritone was even, projecting a cool calmness and confidence.

"All work and no play, Sherlock? I hope this won't be dull." Jim smiled, but he pushed his own plate aside, too.

The two men locked eyes for the first time, really looking at each other with the kind of forensic intensity that often dismayed the people around them. Moriarty enjoyed the detective's attention, and his smile blossomed on his lips. He took in the grey green eyes, the impassive face which was giving very little away.  _Yes, this Holmes could be a lot more interesting than that predictable overweight brother of his. If I had to sum Sherlock up in a word, it isn't 'smug', more like 'dangerous'. Yummy._

The Irishman stood up from the table and took his glass with him to walk over to look out at the view. Sherlock followed, mirroring his movement. As the detective stood beside him, he could tell that Moriarty was comfortably at ease.  _Home advantage; I'm on his territory_. But there was more to it than that. He deduced that the Irishman believed he had the upper hand completely, he exuded confidence. His host was rested, relaxed and in an almost playful mood.

He was so  _totally unafraid_. That rather annoyed Sherlock, so he decided to take the initiative.

"What do you want from me?" It was said quietly, with just the right tinge of honest curiosity, which would have fooled almost everyone except his brother.

The question just made Moriarty's smile broaden into a grin. "Oh, I think you will have already predicted something, Sherlock." He turned away from the window to look more closely at the face of the man beside him. "But, I might just surprise you. What do I want from you, Sherlock? " he repeated the question rhetorically, before answering it-

"I want…everything. Your mind, your body, your soul. "

Sherlock struggled to mask his confusion. He had anticipated Moriarty repeating the message he had first delivered at the pool- to stop prying, a cease and desist order. This…was something new.

"Oh, sweet!" Jim did not conceal his utter delight. "You hadn't realised before now? The five puzzles? All part of a recruitment process, my dear. And I have to say, you've passed with flying colours."

"What happened to your threat to  _burn_  the heart out of me then? Or was that just theatrical posturing?" Sherlock did allow a slight smirk to show, hoping it might disguise his discomfort at being wrong footed.

Moriarty sighed. "Oh, do try to keep up, Sherlock. I know it isn't easy, because you are surrounded by ordinary minds all the time. If you just think about it a minute, the answer will come to you. Don't be boring now."

A moment of silence fell between the two men. Then abruptly, Jim snorted his impatience. "I am a busy man, Sherlock, but I do think you should have figured this out. Let me give you a little clue then; working for me means …no more boundaries. No one telling you 'don't do that; it isn't  _right_.' Parents, that meddling brother of yours, the little doctor, sweet Jesus, even the policeman plods gang up on you to tell you what is  _right_  and what is  _wrong._ What if I were to tell you that you never have to change to suit someone else's definition of normal again? "

He leaned in a bit closer to Sherlock, and said very quietly. "I  _like_  you just as you are, you gorgeous sociopath. No need to hide, to pretend, to try to conform to their stupid expectations. I can set you free, Sherlock, to be just what you want to be. "

The detective suddenly realised what Jim had meant by the pool. He had thought Moriarty was threatening John, when in fact, he probably just saw the sentiment as a weakness to be resisted.  _Saying yes to this offer will mean admitting that I have no heart to be burnt._

Moriarty gave a genuine smile as he deduced what Sherlock was thinking. "Just so! You have to admit, this isn't the first time the thought has occurred to you. I won't ask you what stopped you before now; it doesn't matter. The difference is this time, you won't be alone. You can leave all that …sentiment behind. Welcome to my world."

Sherlock knew that the Irishman had hit a nerve with him. There were times when he wondered whether working on the other side of the fence might be less tedious. It was something that Sally Donovan taunted him with on a regular basis, after all.  _Only logical to be curious about it,_  he had always reasoned. But something had held him back in the past, and in part, he had to admit, it was the leap into unknown territory, cutting himself off from all the routines that structured his current life. _Inertia…is that the only reason?_ He did not have an answer.

But, even if he might be tempted, the idea of a  _job_ offer from Moriarty was preposterous. He voiced it: "If you are seriously considering the idea that I might somehow _work for you_ , then you might want to talk to my brother, who has singularly failed to get me to do that for the past decade. Why would I even consider the possibility of doing so for  _you_?" Sherlock did not attempt to disguise the distain in his voice.

"Oh, no, no- don't misunderstand, not work  _for_  me, it's  _with me._  I wouldn't insult you to suggest that you're anything like one of the hired hands. I've got something much more  _interesting_  in mind."

He put his glass of wine down, and put his hands in his pockets, then gave Sherlock one of his little theatrical sheepish grins. "I'm getting so  _BORED_  with being a consultant- waiting around for criminals to come to me to solve their little problems. I loved your little "Jim'll fix it" quip at the pool- but you know, the shame is that their tiny little minds come up with such dull stuff that I can hardly be bothered to care. After the past few years of seeing the same old ideas trotted out by the same idiots, well, I just know I can do much better on my own. So, I've been thinking about branching out, taking a more entrepreneurial approach, that is to say, planning and executing my own crimes."

"So, what's stopping you? Are you afraid to get your hands dirty? Too lazy to do the actual footwork?" Sherlock's voice took on a bored tone.

"Well, it's the same old problem isn't it? I am surrounded by fools. It's the final problem, really for people like you and me. Things are just so much more fun if they can be shared with someone who can actually appreciate one's cleverness. Think of this as a diversification plan. You would head up the new business, as my partner. Equal shares. Of course, I know that money, fame and fortune are all just so tedious to you." He waved his hand dismissively, forestalling what he expected Sherlock to say.

He looked at the pair of grey green eyes that were studying him, and continued. "No, I _know_ you. You are like me in that respect. It isn't what motivates other people, but this much we have in common. It's the  _work_  that matters; it's the only thing that matters. That's the problem, isn't it? The final problem, how can we keep the work challenging enough to keep boredom at bay? What's the point of it all, if it isn't really interesting and there is no one to share it with?

"Working with me means you won't be dependent on other people to come up with challenges, you get to create your own. Oh, and there will be the pleasure of watching your brother trying to figure out just who is actually behind all the crimes he can't solve."

He was clearly serious. No little smirks, or funny voices this time. It wasn't a performance. He was speaking in a normal tone, no trace of the usual sneer of superiority.

"The only thing better than doing it on your own is doing it with someone who can actually understand the brilliance of it. I think we would make a great team, Sherlock. We both enjoy the  _game_  more than anything else. No, my dear, the reason I haven't done this before now is that I have been waiting for you." 

He raised his hand in a silent salute to Sherlock. "So, there it is. Join me and you will never, ever be bored again. Simple, really, when you think about it." He could not conceal his smirk now, as he turned away from the window and picked up his glass, walked over to the decanter and poured himself another glass.  _Gotcha!_

Sherlock remained at the window looking out, and took another swallow of his wine, watching the slow progress of a tourist ship making its way downstream towards the Thames Barrier. "Why me?" he asked in a cool tone.

Jim laughed. "Fishing for compliments, are you, Sherlock? Suffice to say, I've never offered this to anyone before."

"Alright then, I will ask it another way. Why  _you_?"

That provoked a reaction from the consulting criminal. "Oooh, you do know how to hurt a guy's feelings. You want me to  _woo_  you?" He did not disguise his incredulity. When Sherlock did not reply, he huffed. "Alright then, if you had really wanted to do this on your own, you would have done so by now. What held you back? Wanting the good opinion of others? I don't think so. They judge you, Sherlock, and you've always come up that teensy little bit…wanting, haven't you?"

"That's still no reason to  _join_  you, even if they don't always understand what motivates me."

"Genius loves company, Sherlock. Only currently neither of us has the company we deserve. I can solve that for you."

"I don't do 'relationships'."

"Neither do I. We'll make a splendid pair, I am sure."

Sherlock put his glass down. "Hypothetically speaking, don't you really think my brother would try to stop me from joining you?"

"What's it like to be your age and still have a big brother trying to dictate every step you take? For God's sake, Sherlock- grow up, time to spread your wings!"

Moriarty pulled his lips down into an exaggerated frown, then drew his finger to his lip as if he had suddenly come to a realisation. "Of course, he'll try to stop you. That's the fun of it- watching his face when you manage to escape his clutches! I could make you conveniently disappear, or better still, arrange for him to see you die, only to resurrect you safe in my company. If the British Government thinks you're dead, then you can do what you bloody like, without his interference. Imagine the look on his face when he realised his favourite toy was no longer there to manipulate. "

As much as the image diverted Sherlock for a moment, he knew that the conversation was nearing its conclusion. "I need time to think this through."

Jim sat down on the white leather sofa, and leaned back, totally relaxed. "I'll give you two days." He gestured with his hand as if shooing Sherlock off. "Go back to your boring little world, and just see how tedious it all is. Now that you know what freedoms are waiting for you here, I am certain that you will come to the right decision. It's a straight forward choice."

His expression just oozed confidence. "While you're thinking about all the fun we can have, you might want to bear in mind the consequence of saying no. If you are not with me, you are against me, Sherlock."

Moriarty's dark eyes glittered. "Destroying you would almost be as much fun as getting you to sell your soul to the devil. It's pretty finely balanced." He shrugged. "If you don't agree, then I will enjoy taking you apart, piece by piece, and every little bit of that tedious life that the angels chain you to. Everything and everyone, until you lose all access to the work, so there is nothing left for that brain of yours to do except eat itself up. And there will be no one left to stop you this time, because I will have killed them all. You'll know that it is your fault, too. When you've lost enough, you will beg me to put you down, like a dog. I might be merciful, or I might just let you wallow in it until you destroy yourself. Oh, and I will use that process to squeeze the living daylights out of your brother. I have to admit that the idea is almost so appealing that I might just skip the idea of seducing you. But then I realised it might hurt him even more to do it this way."

He rose from the sofa, and picked up the phone, knife and pen from the table, handing them back to the detective. He smiled, and if you did not think of the words he had just said, you might have thought it a charming smile.

Then he raised his voice a fraction. "Sebastian, I know you're listening." The gunman opened the door and looked in as Jim continued, "I want you to take my soon-to-be business partner here back to the Tower Bridge hotel." Moran had Sherlock's coat and scarf with him, and handed them over to the detective with scarcely concealed annoyance.

"Now, Seb, keep your murderous thoughts to yourself, lest he be tempted to use that knife of his on you." Moriarty clearly enjoyed provoking the blond man, and he smirked when he got the anticipated growl from him, "this wimp wouldn't last two minutes in a fair fight with me, and you know it, sir."

That brought a laugh from the consulting criminal. "Well, Seb, I do know how you like to cheat, so somehow I don't think it would ever be a fair fight. That said, you are still afraid of me enough to follow your orders, I am sure. See you soon, Sherlock!" And with Jim's laughter echoing behind him, Moran followed Sherlock into the elevator.

The trip down from the docklands penthouse passed in silence under the watchful eye of the video camera in the lift. Yet, the two men were communicating nevertheless. Sherlock stood calm and confident, wrapped again in his coat and scarf, and smiling to himself. Moran simmered beside him, seething in frustration. When they left the elevator at the underground car park, and the doors shut behind them, Moran grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and shoved him brutally into the concrete wall. "He can no longer hear or see us now, Holmes, so I will say what I have to say to you." His eyes were like gun metal. "Be careful to make the right decision, or I will ensure that you and your little pet pay the price."

"And what decision is that? It must be particularly galling to you that he would offer me a partnership that you clearly think should be yours. Instead, he goes out of his way to humiliate you in front of me. You reek with jealousy. So the decision you want me to make is to turn him down, isn't it? I wonder what he would do if he knew you were threatening to undermine his offer?"

Sherlock shook off the grip of the sniper, and turned to the car with a swirl of his coat. The driver opened the passenger door, but before the detective got in, he turned back. "You really do need to learn to control yourself; it would be unwise at this stage to make an enemy of me. If I decide to join Moriarty, I just might ask for your head on a plate as a sort of welcome-to-the-new-job present. And you know something? I think he likes me enough to give it to me." He smiled at that thought as the car drove off.

When the car got to the Tower Hotel car park, Sherlock went up the escalator into the lobby and looked for the reception desk. Taking out the wallet which he had just pick-pocketed off Sebastian Moran when the sniper was trying to rough him up, he booked into an expensive room overlooking the river, and duly charged it to the sniper. He smiled all the way up in the lift to the room. He had some thinking to do, and it was only fair that he do it at the expense of Moriarty's henchman.


	15. Street Talking

John's relentless pacing finally brought Mrs Hudson up the stairs. When he answered her knock, she stood with her hands on her hips giving him a stern look softened only by a slight smile. "You're worse than Sherlock. I don't suppose you've heard anything yet, so let me fix you a cup of tea."

She bustled past him and headed for the kitchen. At least with a cup of tea, he would stop walking. The sound of creaking floorboards over the past four days was starting to get on her nerves. He just sighed when the tea came in his favourite RAMC mug and she waved him toward his chair. "Now, John Watson, take the weight off your feet and let my poor floorboards have a rest, if you please."

He had reluctantly sat and took his first sip when the doorbell buzzed. Before John could get up, Mrs Hudson was through the door and heading down the stairs. "You just sit there; I will go see who it is."

John heard muffled voices, and then he heard her coming back up accompanied by someone whose step he did not recognise. He stiffened and put his cup down, calculating the distance between his chair and the drawer in the table by the window where he had put his gun a few days ago.  _Be prepared_  seemed a sensible motto after Moriarty's threats at the pool. Even with Mycroft's surveillance teams, you couldn't be too careful. He was at the table before Mrs Hudson opened the living room door and showed in a guest.

"Raz!" John relaxed his shoulders and shut the drawer.

Mrs Hudson took one look at the young man and said "I will get you a cup of team, young man- and maybe a little something to eat wouldn't go amiss, would it?" She saw his thinness and the slightly feral set of his shoulders.

John tried to make him feel more at ease. "Good to see you; glad you got the message. Sit down, please."

As John resumed his seat, he watched Raz approach Sherlock's chair and then stop. "Nah, sorry; not there. I can't do that, mate," the young man muttered. He grabbed the chair by the desk and turned it around, perching uncomfortably. He eyed the unoccupied leather seat suspiciously and then looked around the room, as if expecting Sherlock to come swooping in to fling himself in it at any minute.

"Uh, actually, that's what I need to talk to you about. Have you seen him?"

Raz snorted, and shook his head. "That's what Angel said you was asking about. Too many questions make people nervous, you know; you'd best be careful. If he don't want to be found, he won't be, you know. He's like fucking Houdini, innit he?"

"Language, young man! I'll not have you swear _i_ ng like that in my house." Mrs Hudson came in from the kitchen bearing another cup of tea, her stern words softened by the plate of jam sandwich she was carrying. She looked down at Raz as he reached up to take the mug and plate, and tutted. "The bathroom is down the hall; those hands look like they could do with a wash before you eat."

"Mrs Hudson. I am sure we can manage from here. Thanks for your help," John didn't want to hurt her feelings, but he was worried that her fussing might put Raz off and he'd bolt.

Once the landlady retreated back down stairs, John leaned forward. Raz took a big bite from the sandwich, and then proceeded to talk around the food in his mouth. "I don't know what her problem is. I'm not homeless, you know; I'm a piecer. I live with my Nan. Really, that housekeeper of yours kinda reminds me of her."

"She's not my housekeeper; she's my landlady," John said, almost automatically. Then he looked puzzled. "I thought you were a graffiti artist. What's a 'piecer'?"

Raz looked at him like he was an idiot and sniggered. "I started as a tagger, then started bombing, but now I am a piecer. I don't work with a crew- I'm a real artist, I do the masterpieces. Get on the page, doc."

John's confusion about the lingo must have showed; then he laughed ruefully. "Maybe that's why my appeal against the ASBO worked- they could tell in a second that I hadn't a clue about this stuff."

"Yeah, well, I'm glad that you got off an' all, because I'd be embarrassed to hell if people thought that you were the guy what produced that fine piece on the wall of the National Art Gallery. That was a first class statement there, and I want the credit." He licked his fingers, after demolishing the last bite of the sandwich. It made John wonder if his Nan looked after him much.

"So, how do you know Sherlock?"

"The guy's got the eyes and ears of the city; not much going down that he don't know. He helps out sometimes when things with the filth get tetchy. He's tight with that silver haired bloke, you know, that detective. Siggy's posh enough to get his way with the authorities, but got credit with the streets, too. Respect for us gets him respect in return."

Raz looked down at the empty plate as if wishing it had more on it before continuing, "helped me out when I showed up as a little kid with a spray can, and pissed off a gang that wanted me off their territory. Protected me long enough to get out with my skin intact, and took me off to some other taggers to learn the rules. Never forgot that, saved me from a serious beating, he did. Not just me; like, he's helped a lot of street people out of tough spots."

"Then maybe you can help him now, Raz, because I am afraid that he might be in trouble. There is a guy out there with a private army who wants him dead, and I need to find him."

"Like I said, doc- if he don't want to be found, then nobody will- not the good guys or the bad."

"But, he hasn't taken his phone or a laptop and I need to get a message to him, Raz, I really need to!" John tried to keep the desperation from his voice, but he was past carrying how it might be misinterpreted by others.

Raz just looked at him. Then he cocked his head, and asked quietly "ever wonder why he might not want you to be able to reach him right now?"

"Yes, OF COURSE, I wonder about that- and worry too."

"No, I mean it, mate. If he don't want to hear you, then that gives you both protection, don't it? If someone wants him, they know they can't use you to reach him, if he ain't able to hear you. Sounds like a strategy to me."

 _Oh!_ John suddenly looked at Raz with a fresh pair of eyes. This guy was  _smart_. John had been struggling with this for days, and yet Raz had in a matter of minutes put his finger on the reason why Sherlock might have wanted to disappear without a trace and be non-contactable. Why would Moriarty bother to kidnap John again, if he couldn't use it to his advantage because Sherlock didn't even know?

But, that meant anything could be happening to Sherlock out there on the streets, and they wouldn't know either. And that scared John, it really did. Raz's revelation made John more aware than ever that he simply  _hated_  being used against his flatmate. And he found it hard to deal with the guilt; it seemed so unfair that the one and only time Sherlock might have entertained the idea of having a friend, that person turned out to be a weapon against him.  _Enough to make anyone want to be a sociopath._  But, Sherlock's willingness to take John out of the equation meant he was on his own facing that madman, and that scared John even more than all the snipers and bomb jackets going. He found that he really, really wanted to get his gun out of the drawer and go use it to kill a particular madman with a soft Irish accent. In cold blood, if necessary.

Raz was just watching him. John began to realise why Sherlock liked Raz. Under the guise of an antisocial unemployed vandal was a brain worthy of Sherlock's respect. Raz started to shift uncomfortably in his chair, as he felt John's scrutiny.

"So," he said a little self-consciously. "What can I do for you, doc?"

"Thank you, Raz. Why the change of heart, why are you now willing to help me?"

"Because you an' him are tight; I seen it. He's better coz of you. Less…I don't know, less likely to go fizzing off in some crazy direction, like he used to. And, since you, he's left the blow alone; that's good, too. I don't do drugs, you know; my Nan's best advice is to steer clear. Siggy stopped me from going there- said he was a bad example not to be followed. I got that. Drugs killed my mum, and he said that every time I got tempted, I should just remember her." He looked sad for a moment. "So, if I can help Siggy stay clean and be safe, that's a payback. He's done it for me; I can try to do it for him."

"Raz, you've already helped in a way, by getting me to understand something. And I know you can help more now. Forget about what I said, that idea of trying to get a message from me to Sherlock. What really matters is that you tell the whole network to keep an eye out for him. He is in very great danger. If you care for him, and I think you do, then you need to be eyes and ears, as you called it. I am angry- no, that doesn't even begin to describe what I am feeling at the moment- I'm livid that someone is threatening to kill him, and to feel safe, he has to run away from me and the flat. So, if I can't help him without endangering him even more, then I'm going to have to ask you to do it for me. If his homeless network can be there for him when the time comes, then it might just make a difference. Have you got a mobile?"

"Yeah, me Nan got me a pay-as-you-go, so I can text her if I'm going to be out overnight or something. She's old and worries a lot."

"Take my number and call me if you or anyone else hears anything or needs anything to help Sherlock."

When the young man had pocketed the scrap of paper with the phone number on it, he mumbled his thanks for the tea and sandwich before heading out. As the front door shut behind him, John was left sitting in his chair, contemplating the empty chair across from him, and wondering just what it would take for him to be able to convince a consulting detective to resume sitting there.


	16. Return of the Prodigal

That night was the first in five that John actually managed to get some sleep. He'd drifted off within minutes of turning out the light, but the sleep he fell into was broken by dreams. Moving almost seamlessly between the dry heat of Afghanistan and the grey and drizzly alleyways of London, he was trying to find someone who was dying, who needed him to stop the bleeding and get the medivac helicopter to pick them up and get away from the gunfire. He kept turning over casualties that littered the ground, only to feel both sad at their deaths yet relieved the victims weren't the person he was looking for.

He wasn't sure what woke him up, perhaps Mrs Hudson downstairs, or a car door slamming somewhere on Baker Street. He came awake with a start, and rubbed his face, letting his eyes focus on the clock beside his bed- 3.57am. Whatever it had been, he could hear only silence now, but he knew that he would not get back to sleep again. So, John slipped his dressing gown on, stepped into his slippers and went wearily down the stairs towards the kitchen, the kettle and a restorative tea.

He flipped on the kitchen light, filled the kettle and dragged the box of tea bags out of the cupboard, then opened the fridge to get out the milk. That brought a wry smile. The only advantage of Sherlock's absence over the past five days was that the milk had stopped disappearing mysteriously. That said, the fridge had a rather unpleasant odour hanging around; he would have to do a body search in the morning to see if one of Sherlock's experiments had gone off while he was away.

"Yes, John. You are right- that test on the pancreas can be ditched. It's well past its use by date."

"CHRIST!" John dropped his tea mug, which spilt hot tea all over the counter top. As he tried to mop up before the tea started to drip on the floor, he practically shouted. "You've just scared the daylights out of me, Sherlock. Try giving me some warning next time!"

He turned and saw the detective sitting in the dark in his chair in the living room, watching John with a cool look on his face. It didn't matter in the slightest to John, who was both relieved and annoyed at the same time. "Where have you been for the past five days? Do you have any idea how worried I've been? Not just me, Lestrade and your brother, even the homeless network – all of us have been trying to find you."

"If you are making yourself another cup of tea, you can do one for me too, John."

For a moment John just stared at him, but then decided that shouting was probably not the best way to handle this. He re-filled the kettle and got a second tea mug down, trying to get himself back under control. To go from sleep fuddled to adrenaline pumped in less than ten seconds was playing havoc with his brain.

As the tea steeped in the cups, John's temper darkened. A few minutes later, the doctor handed the detective a mug of tea. "Well, I suppose I should be grateful that I wasn't woken by a call from a hospital or a morgue, and, actually, I DO understand why you might have wanted to be out of contact for a while. Raz explained it to me."

Sherlock looked up at that, with a slightly surprised glance. "That was astute of you." He sipped from the mug, and stretched his feet out, relaxing into his leather chair.

"Should I text your brother? He's been just a little more than concerned about your absence."

"Don't bother. I made no effort to hide my return, and the surveillance team will have done their work. The only question is whether the lazy sod will turn over and go back to sleep, or be a nuisance before the morning."

On cue, the two could hear John's new mobile ringing upstairs. "Ignore it," Sherlock growled. "He just wants to be an interfering git." He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.  _There is something to be said for a life less…observed._  "There are times I feel some affinity with the contestants in that stupid Big Brother programme that you made me watch."

"Well, at least we don't get voted out of Baker Street by the viewing public."

John sat down in his chair. The light from the kitchen cast him into shadow, but it fell on Sherlock's face enough to show the doctor that his friend was tired. "Would you like me to fix you something to eat?"

"No, I had a reasonable lunch. In fact, more than reasonable."

"What have you been doing for the past five days?" This time, John made the question more curious than accusatory.

"Thinking."

"You did a fair bit of that here, so why the switch in venue?"

"Thinking here endangered you and therefore me. Thinking elsewhere did not. Simple choice."

"So, why are you back now? Are we no longer in danger?"

"A brief hiatus, that's all. But, logical to take advantage of it."

"Care to explain why?"

"No. Can't say that I do."

"Oh, so I guess I just have to take your word for it that the madman, snipers and another bomb jacket aren't lurking around the corner. How long is this going to last?"

"Might only be another day or two. Don't know, have to think some more about it."

John just stared at him, totally perplexed at how calm Sherlock seemed about it all. He finished his tea, and started to ask, "Wha…" but before he could finish the word, the detective propelled himself out of his chair, across the living room floor, straight over the coffee table, to flop down on the sofa. Closing his eyes, he just said "Please ignore me and go back to bed. Oh, and if you want to work at the surgery tomorrow, you can safely do so. "

John just stared in amazement. After putting a hand to his head in disbelief, he decided to retreat back upstairs. Perhaps in the morning, he'd find Sherlock more talkative. He doubted it somehow, but it was always worth hoping. On the other hand, at least his flatmate had not repeated his earlier demand that John leave Baker Street.  _Thank God for small mercies._


	17. Jealousy

Jim left the Docklands penthouse after lunch. Although he had every confidence that Sherlock would make the right choice, he would leave nothing to chance. Years of hiding in plain sight led him to appreciate the ephemera of possessions. He was always prepared to walk away from anywhere, anything and of course anyone, if the work required it.  _Sentimental attachment_  was a weakness that he had never understood. Although the flat had been rented in the name of various shell companies that would be impossible to trace back to him, now that Sherlock knew where it was, Moriarty thought it prudent to move on. His driver had already collected his clothes and a few of his prized possessions, moving them to a new flat, this time in Chelsea.

Unpredictable was his middle name. It had shielded him for years from the prying eyes of governments and their silly security services.  _Mind numbingly predictable, every last one of them_. Capriciousness was a natural characteristic for him, so useful because it made him appear random. Law enforcement in the modern age was all based on predictability, trend analysis based on endless streams of data. But, as he had discovered, it made them easy to evade. As a mathematician he knew the logarithms used in places like GCHQ; just throw in some randomness and he was safe.

He took his laptop and phone with him, took the Docklands Light Railway to Tower Hill and then changed onto the Circle tube line, going north. When he emerged at Euston Square, he chose a likely looking professional woman with a briefcase and walked alongside her on the pavement. In the crush of people on the pavement, she took no notice of him, but he knew that anyone reviewing CCTV footage would think they were together, and therefore outside the parameters of their search. A computer facial recognition programme was only as good as the idiots who programmed it- and the version they had of his face was almost a decade out of date.  _I just love to walk by right under their noses. Wouldn't it be fun to pull faces at the cameras, just for the thrill of rattling the bars of Mycroft Holmes' cage?_

Moriarty checked himself into the fourth hotel he walked past, paying in cash for a double room. He liked the sense of freedom, no need for the trappings of wealth, the private chauffeured car, the body guard, all of which just attracted unwanted attention. Anyway, Moran got on his nerves at times. Alone was good, occasionally. He needed the break from dealing with inferior minds. That was one thing he would appreciate when Sherlock accepted his offer. He carried a silence within him that Jim could appreciate. A sociopath has no need to please anyone but himself, which made a refreshing change from all the sycophants that surrounded Jim.

That must drive Sherlock's OCD brother right round the twist. Funny that one so controlled and precise could have such a weakness as to care for such a brother. Jim had never had that problem. He grew up loathing and competing with his two siblings, until he just extinguished the thought of them entirely. Until his death, his younger brother had been afraid of him. Probably right, given the number of experiments Jim had conducted on the boy. Why pull off the wings of butterflies or disembowel the neighbour's cat when you can screw with the mind of your own brother? He'd watched with rapt fascination as the young man came unglued when he hit puberty. A few quiet conversations and he'd gone and topped himself.  _Fascinating._

Clearly, Sherlock liked messing with his brother's mind; that was something shared by both consulting detective and consulting criminal. He smiled as his imagination started running a little scenario. He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed. This was better than a sexual fantasy.  _Mind you, that idea has its merits, too._  The lunch had made him realise that the chemistry of two like minds meeting also had a physical side. His little mind scenario took a kinky turn and he occupied himself with that for an hour or so.

Then he decided to make a few calls. The first was to Sherlock. Moriarty texted:

**4.45pm:    Just watch the tick, tock, tick, tock. What's your decision, Sherlock? I need to know tomorrow, no later than twelve o’clock!**

Jim smirked; all that gorgeousness of the man was making him poetic. Moran was next on the list:

**4.47pm    Still sulking, Seb? Want to kiss and make up?**

**4.48pm    Watching target's home. Good angle for a kill shot on tin soldier -SM**

**4.50pm    Back into your cage, Seb. Jealousy not helpful now. Daddy will get VERY annoyed.**

**4.57pm    Tiger’s silent pouting is tedious. Meet me at St Pancras Station champagne bar at 5.45.**

At 5.36, Moran was shown to a booth reserved in one of Moriarty's current cover names. He didn't order, knowing that his boss would want the honours. The menu listed over twenty varieties of champagne, but to Moran they were all just overpriced bubbles. Give him a pint of lager any day. The setting made him uncomfortable- too open. The booths were parallel to the train tracks, and he found himself thinking what a great venue it would be for an assassination. He started calculating lines of sight and distances to convenient vantage points in the station. It gave him some respite from the irritation that had been building all afternoon.

Jim showed up at precisely 5:45 pm, and as he was seated by the waiter, he ordered a bottle of Bollinger RD and two glasses.

"So, you haven’t forgiven me yet for the little Docklands show….Sorry, but a bit of ritual humiliation was needed, given the size of his ego. You know you're still my number one boy, Tiger." He blew a kiss at Seb over the flute of Bolly.

Moran just stared at him. "So, your infatuation is all an act, is it?"

"Don't you think I deserve a BAFTA for it? I thought I was pretty convincing."

"Well, just think of me as one of those TV critics. Flirting with that jerk just offends my sense of justice. Total waste of time- big brother won't let him come to you, surely you know that? If you want to hurt the older Holmes, just let me kill Junior and be done with it. "

"Ooooh, you are such a bad ass. I suppose you'd have preferred him and his pet dead at the pool, but, Seb, where is the  _art_  in that? Too boring!"

"There is art in a clean head shot; it takes skill, calculation and precision. Execution is like sculpture. Identify the bit you don't want, cut it out and be done with it. Simple- I win, he loses. Game over." He took a quarter of the glass of champagne down in a single long gulp.

"You sound sexy when you talk dirty like that, sniper."

"I mean it. Why complicate matters? There is just more risk of things going wrong."

"Oh, my. You just don't get it, do you? I am so BORED OUT OF MY MIND that I need to throw a little more risk into the mix. And, if by any chance I can entice the consulting detective to join the criminal consultancy, well, it could give a whole new meaning to the word  _headhunting._ We can play games until I get tired of him and then just imagine the reaction if I sent a box containing Sherlock's  _head_  to a certain government official's office. Sweet Jesus, what I would give to be a fly on the wall when he opened that box!"

Moran did not understand Jim's obsession with complicating matters.  _Why make things even more difficult?_  Not for the first time, he worried about his boss's obsession with the Holmes brothers.

Undaunted by the look of irritation on Moran's face, Moriarty sipped again at the champagne. "I want you to do a little job for me, Seb. I want to ramp up the pressure on Sherlock. Take the recording you made of today's little lunchtime matinee, and create me an audio clip – the bit where he goes fishing for compliments and then I suck up to his ego. E mail it to Mycroft Holmes, you've got the number on Watson's old phone. If Big Brother bites, he may just push baby brother into a fit of rage. Sherlock might agree to join us just to piss off a minor official in the British Government, you never know."

Moriarty's gave one of his malicious smiles, while Moran struggled to keep his jealousy from showing too much.  _I won't give the bugger the satisfaction of knowing that his flirting annoys me._


	18. Retribution

"Sherlock? Why is Mycroft texting me to get you to call him? Why haven't you been returning his calls?"

"John, you know I ignore him routinely when he is being a prat. This time is no different." Sherlock drew his violin back to his chin and continued where he had left off when John had interrupted.

Less than ten minutes later, the detective stopped in the middle of a particularly complicated arpeggio, and sighed. Through the window, he was looking at something on the street. "Guess who doesn't take no for an answer?"

John heard the front door open downstairs, then the heavy tread of the British Government up the seventeen steps. There was no polite knock this time, Mycroft just opened the door and marched in. He glared at Sherlock, then spared a glance at John. Without a word, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small grey box which he placed on the coffee table, thumbing a switch on the side of it. A green light winked on.

"Oh really, need you be so theatrical?" Sherlock resumed his playing, turning his back on his brother to focus on the music stand.

"Well, I thought it would be better to have this conversation in private, rather than let your … _new friend_  in on the discussion."

"He's only piggy-backing on one of  _your_  eavesdropping devices, Mycroft."

"Doctor Watson, it might be advisible for you to find somewhere else to be for a few minutes; perhaps Mrs Hudson could make you a cup of tea." While he said this, Mycroft did not shift his eyes away from Sherlock. And John could see in that moment just how angry he was, and that he was making no effort to hide it. The fact that this was the first time he had ever seen Mycroft being anything other than totally controlled set off alarm bells for John.

Without thinking, he was on his feet and putting himself between the two men. "What's going on, Mycroft?" It was delivered in a quiet but firm tone, one reminiscent of his days as a battlefield officer.

"Leave now, Doctor; this does not concern you."

"Sherlock, do you want me to go or stay?"

The detective stopped his playing and lowered his bow, but did not turn away from the window to look at the two men behind him. "I cannot decide for you, John." This was delivered quietly in an uncharacteristically resigned tone.

It was the tone that decided it for John. He sat down at the table between the two windows, not taking his eyes off of Mycroft. "Play fair, you two- just think of me as a referee."

Mycroft ignored John and moved into the centre of the room. "Put the violin down, Sherlock- it's time to stop  _playing_."

"Is it losing control of me that makes you so angry, brother?" Sherlock resumed playing, as if enjoying provoking Mycroft.

"No, it's with whom you've decided to play that is worrying me." Sherlock made no reply, but he did stop, and put the violin gently back into its case. Releasing the tension on the bow, he turned and looked at his brother for the first time that evening. It was a sad look, one that surprised John. "You do so underestimate me, you always have, and I think you always will."

"I don't underestimate your stupidity,or your total lack of responsibility. And this time you _really_ have gone too far."

Sherlock drew closer to his brother and now John saw the usual smirk returned to his face. "Just what do you think I've done?”

Mycroft reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He swiped his finger a couple of times. "It's not a question of thinking, brother, I _know_." He hit a key and the sound of a recorded conversation came onto the speaker of the phone, loud enough for the three of them to hear.

" _Why me?"_

" _Fishing for compliment, are you, Sherlock? Suffice to say, I've never offered this to anyone before."_

John's eyes widened as he recognised Moriarty's lilting Irish accent.

" _Alright then, I will ask it in another way. Why you?"_

" _Oooh, you do know how to hurt a guy's feelings. You want me to woo you? Alright then, if you had really wanted to do this on your own, you would have done so by now. What held you back? Wanting the good opinion of others? I don't think so. They judge you, Sherlock, and you've always come up that teensy little bit…wanting, haven't you?"_

" _That's still no reason to join you, even if they don't always understand what motivates me."_

The full horror of that one word-  _join_ \- struck John in the chest like a fist.

" _Genius loves company, Sherlock. Only currently neither of us has the company we deserve. I can solve that for you."_

" _I don't do 'relationships'."_

" _Neither do I. We'll make a splendid pair, I am sure."_

" _Hypothetically speaking, don't you really think my brother would stop me from joining you?"_

" _What's it like to be your age and still have a big brother trying to dictate every step you take? For God's sake, Sherlock- time to grow up and spread your wings!"_

Mycroft turned the phone off, and silence fell for a few moments.

"Why do you think I invest so much in keeping you under surveillance, Sherlock? I know you like to whine that I am a control freak, a voyeur even. But, I have no difficulties in convincing others that it represents value for money, brother. Using state resources for private purposes might be considered a serious abuse. But, no, those who control the purse strings understand what kind of a public threat you are. Even when you choose not to be a criminal, your existence encourages criminals and terrorists to think they can reach me through you. Your actions affect  _my_ reputation, and  _my_  authority, Sherlock. The good of the country requires that you are kept under surveillance and under control. It's the convergence of common good and personal need."

"What about  _my_  needs?"

"They are irrelevant, in the great scheme of things, dear brother. I would have thought you knew that by now."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I have no choice in the matter. You are too dangerous even when you are on our side. You cannot be allowed to be subverted. It would be irresponsible of me, like letting a nuclear weapon fall into the wrong hands."

"It's your fault that Moriarty even noticed me, Mycroft. I'm not a serious threat to his network, but he saw a chance to get at you, to rattle you by messing with me. It's _your_  fault, not mine."

"And you let yourself become vulnerable to that, Sherlock, because you played his game and because you let him know that John Watson could be used against you."

"Oh, you'd rather I'd let him blow up John along with the others?"

"Don't pretend you cared a jot about innocent victims; even John was smart enough to know that."

John was feeling increasingly uneasy. “Uh, you two? You do know I am still in the room?”

“I did ask you to leave. If you must remain, then you will be quiet, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft did not shift his glare from Sherlock as he said this. John had never heard the elder Holmes use the full weight of authority tone of voice before. It reminded John of a consultant surgeon who had so terrified him as an intern that he'd been unable to ask a single question during his rotation. 

Sherlock did not even glance at John. He was equally fixated on the staring match. "You'd rather I was bored out of my mind, comatose with tedium or drugged up to the eyes because life is so dull?"

"Yes, to all of that, if the alternative is you on Moriarty's side."

John shifted in his chair, very uncomfortable with the way the argument was going.

Sherlock wouldn't let up. "So, it's off to the dungeons for me, Mycroft? Shame I don't share your passion for manipulating and using people. I don't get off on controlling things from behind the scenes. You have power to keep you happy, moving your pawns around on that board in your head, but your opiate is not one I like– I have a sort of an allergic reaction to that kind of abuse of authority, especially when it is aimed at me."

"Yes, well,  _someone_  needs to be doing what's best for society. You're not the centre of the universe, Sherlock. You've always considered your own needs to be far more important than anything else; time to realise that you can't do everything you want, or have everything your own way."

Sherlock looked away, breaking the staring match. "Why do you  _always_  assume the worst of me, that I will do the wrong thing?"

"I don't know, maybe experience?" Mycroft allowed the sarcasm to show.

"The only real crimes I have ever really committed are against myself, but somehow that doesn't seem to have penetrated that smug pomposity of yours." Sherlock walked up to his brother, invading his personal space and making his presence felt. John realised that his flatmate was the only one he knew that wasn't intimidated by Mycroft's height and aura of authority. Even so, it felt like a dangerously provocative move, and he wasn't surprised to see the older brother clench his hands into fists.

Sherlock gave a steely look at Mycroft. "You're becoming more like Father every day. Do you have a sudden urge to hit me, too?"

"I am beginning to understand his point of view. Sometimes you just don't know when to stop, do you?"

Sherlock looked sad, but then turned away, walking a few steps back toward the window. "So, you'd rather I was dead than bad, would you?"

"Don't assume that I have a choice in the matter, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at John, as if seeing him as a participant in the discussion for the first time. "Now you see what I have to deal with? Life would have been so much easier for him if he'd been an only child. It's a wonder I’ve not done the deed for him already. Would you like that, Mycroft, to drive me crazy with boredom until I just can't stand the thought of carrying on? That would be your problem solved, wouldn't it! You must be sorry that Lestrade found me that time I overdosed, could have saved you so much worry. Next time I will be more thorough, I promise."

Mycroft just looked at him. "Stop the histrionics. This isn't all about you. For once, just think about the consequences of your actions. I am not talking just about the threat to you, or the collateral damage that could be directed at John, if Moriarty carries through his threats. There is  _more_  at stake here; if I don't stop you, then my credibility and authority will be destroyed, and that's one less enemy for Moriarty. That's why he is doing this."

He took a deep breath and then his tone became deadly serious. "Moriarty will eat you alive, Sherlock. If you do this, then he wins twice. You know I can't let that happen." The threat was delivered quietly but with total authority. In that moment, John knew that he never, ever wanted to be on the receiving end of a threat like that. He was a soldier with battlefield experience; he could tell when a line had been crossed. Mycroft continued, with each syllable delivered in a precise, icy tone, "You are under house arrest. Move an inch from the flat and you will be dealt with. You've run out of special favours; you've made it impossible for me to do anything other than by the book."

He turned to the doctor. "John, try to talk some sense into him before it is too late." Then Mycroft was going down the stairs at a much faster pace than his usual deliberate speed, and the front door slammed behind him.

The silence that followed was broken first by John. "Why, Sherlock? What possible reason could you have for considering an offer to  _join_  that maniac?"

"I hate stalemates, John. They are just so pointless. I needed to understand why Moriarty would go through the charade at the pool; it made no sense."

"Well, yeah, I was there, remember? And I am not sure why anyone, least of all you, would think that wrapping a person up in a bomb jacket was ever going to make 'sense'. The man's insane."

Sherlock sorted. "The likelihood that the bomb was actually armed was less than one in five. Moriarty would not have risked his own life that way. It was all part of his game! The snipers were real, but they were under his control. Don't underestimate him, John. His plans have wheels within wheels; the surface is rarely the reality."

"He was going to  _kill_  us, Sherlock! Whether it was a bomb or a bullet is a little irrelevant. It was only that phone call that changed his mind."

"Don't be so obvious. That's what he wanted you to believe. We have no idea how he planned for the rest of that scenario to go if the call had not interrupted him. And, for all we know, that call was actually part of the whole performance. Yesterday, he called it a recruitment exercise, so I rather doubt he intended to go through with a double murder."

"And I am supposed to be reassured by that, am I? Somehow I don't feel very happy about this." John came closer to Sherlock, looking up into those grey green eyes as if to see whether his friend was willing to be honest. "Are you seriously considering this…'offer' of his?"

Sherlock just looked back at John. A flash of disappointment crossed his face. " _Et tu, Brutus_? Are you also prepared to think the worst of me?"

"God, no, Sherlock, but you do know that it would be nice if just once you could tell me what's going on in that mind palace of yours. Just once in a while, trust me, will you? You aren't exactly giving me much to hang onto here. And to be blunt, it pisses me off. A lot."

"To trust you in the way you want is to involve you, to expose you to risk. As my brother is so quick to say, that's irresponsible. I routinely endanger others, with no thought of the consequences. Not this time, I won't commit a crime like that against you again."

John snorted. "Well, I know you well enough to know that that is just  _sentiment_ \- a handful of dust thrown to distract me. What, so when Mycroft learns about this, he will think that your… _affection_  for me is enough to stop you? Sherlock,  _acting_  like you care isn't the same thing as caring- it's another form of manipulation. Very not good."

Sherlock started to move away, but John grabbed his arm to stop him. The detective flinched from the contact, but then steadied and stopped.

"I know you don't often credit me with much intelligence, Sherlock, but I do trust you enough to know that you are not going to bite at this. I know, I know- I can remember shouting that "I'm sure you'd be very happy together" – but I was wrong. The more I've thought about it, and I have, the more I realise just how wrong I was."

John released his arm, but kept talking. "You said 'people don't understand what motivates you'. Maybe other people don't, but I do. Enough to know that you wouldn't  _like_  committing crimes. No buzz, no thrill of  _solving_  it. That's what rocks your boat. Not the "doing good" stuff; that's irrelevant, but figuring it out when you don't know all the pieces, that's you right down to a T. In the weird and wonderful world of Sherlock, crime is just dull."

John started to pace, as if walking would help keep him grounded, help him keep control of his temper. "No, for you, thinking up the crime in the first place would be…too easy. No matter how elaborate or difficult, committing a crime would be just too mechanical, tedious."

He gestured at the coded evidence over the sofa.  "Solving the crime – well, that's different. It means you get to do both- you can figure out how it was done when no one else can, and feel superior at knowing exactly how you would have done it better. Deduction is the thrill of being able to show off how clever you are. The problem of the perfect crime is there's no deduction; no one ever figures it out. No applause, no appeal. That's the difference between you and Moriarty."

Sherlock sniffed. "Well, I suppose that I should feel grateful that you're not labeling me a narcissist psychopath."

John didn't even bother to acknowledge that barb. "No, what I don't understand is why do you think that somehow going off on your own to tackle Moriarty is going to…what, keep me safe? Why the hell would I want that? I'm here with you, working with you, backing you up because it's my choice, Sherlock. You have no right to make decisions like that for me.  _I am on your side._ We are in this together, and you are going to stop treating me like I am some sort of shrinking violet." John thought, to hell with this, he was going to tell Sherlock how he felt in no uncertain terms _At least I am being honest._

Sherlock did not reply. John could see him wrestling with something, but whatever it was, he couldn't seem to voice it. Sherlock broke eye contact, sighed and then picked up the little grey box from the coffee table and thumbed it off before depositing it in his pocket. He sat down in his leather chair, hugging his legs up to his chest, like some giant grasshopper, and closed his eyes. "I can't talk about this anymore, John. It's serving no purpose."

"Sherlock, this is important, really important. This is what being a friend means. I've been honest with you, now it's your turn."

Sherlock clenched his knees tighter to his chest and said through clenched teeth, "And I just told you I can't! It's not a matter of not wanting to, it's not being able to. I'm sorry, but that's just what I am. Leave me alone."

It wasn't the usual sort of petulance that John had come to expect from the detective, who was tucking his head down onto his arms, as if trying to shut out John, the flat, the world. He looked utterly miserable. The sight knocked the anger right out of John, pulling at his heart in so many ways, made worse now by the knowledge Mycroft had given him about Sherlock's past.  _Christ, just my luck to be trying to get the truth out of him when he goes and plays the 'I don't do feelings' card. Is that manipulation, or the truth?_

John just sighed. "I give up… for now anyway. As long as we're both going to be held prisoner in this flat, we can talk about it in the morning." And he retreated upstairs to his bedroom.


	19. Making a Choice

When John woke the following morning, it was to an empty flat. Even before he got down the stairs, he knew in his bones that Sherlock had managed to disappear.  _Again_ .  _Despite Mycroft's warning_ . A quick look in his friend's room brought a tiny spark of hope when he saw a bed with a body sized shape in it. But, when he pulled the duvet back, he found artfully arranged pillows.

The kettle was filled and switched on with one hand as the other hit speed dial and Mycroft picked up. "He's gone. Are you aware of that fact?" There was a moment's silence. "I will get back to you momentarily, John." The line went dead.

"Shit!" Whether that expletive was due to spilling some hot water as he tried to fill his cup and put his phone down at the same time or John's sheer frustration, he wasn't sure. If Sherlock could evade the best surveillance that the British Government could provide not once but twice, then there was little hope he'd be able to find him. And he wanted to do so before either Mycroft or Moriarty found him first. After yesterday's confrontation between the two Holmes brothers, he wasn't sure which would do the most damage to the wayward detective.  _And that's if I don't get to him first._

If being left behind the first time had been painful for John; now he was almost incandescent with anger. Sherlock might have difficulties expressing his emotions, but this had never been an issue for John. He realised that knowing what he now knew about Sherlock, he could not expect the detective to voice his feelings openly. But, he also guessed that the younger Holmes would be struggling to understand the fact that he was the reason why John was at risk. Staring at the wall in the living room and replaying last night's discussion with Sherlock, he instinctively recognised that the last piece of paper, the one on the extreme right that had all the strings attached to it had some connection to himself, and that it had pushed Sherlock into some sort of protective mode.  _Pushing me away to make me safe; this is a really, really bad time to be discovering the emotion of guilt._

Heading back to the kitchen for a second cup of tea, John glanced down at the kitchen table which seemed particularly crowded with equipment. More than there had been last night. A Bunsen burner, distillation tubing, an Erlenmeyer flask with a residual amount of clear liquid in it. He was sure they had not been part of the array there last night. The doctor started to sniff at the flask- but stopped himself. He had learned early on never to risk touching or tasting anything on the kitchen table, given Sherlock's penchant for poisons.  _Why would he need to do an experiment now?_

He rang Mycroft back. "There is a suspicious liquid in a flask that wasn't here last night. Do you think it could be linked to where he might have gone?"

"I will send someone to collect it for analysis. If he is manufacturing his own drugs, I swear I will lock him away for good." Mycroft sounded as fed up as John had ever heard him.

"Hey, don't assume the worst. It's probably some hare-brained experiment of his to…I don't know, test how the salinity of saliva changes after death, or something equally bizarre. You know how he is. I'm probably clutching at straws here."

The government car arrived within two minutes, testimony to the fact that Mycroft had people on the ground near Baker Street.  _Shame that they couldn't manage to keep their eyes on one civilian_. John was beginning to have some sympathy for Sherlock's criticism that surveillance never seemed to be of any help when it was really needed.

Mycroft himself showed up a half an hour after that. He came up the stairs with two agents, one of whom moved purposefully to the windows and drew the curtains. He set up another one of those grey boxes and switched it on. The other agent went upstairs to John's bedroom. Mycroft just said quietly, "come with me" and took John into Sherlock's bedroom, where he found his brother's laptop on the floor. The elder Holmes sat on the edge of the bed and powered it up.

"What's going on, Mycroft?"

"We've managed to locate a message sent to Sherlock early this morning. It was a posting on an online forum, a site that to our knowledge he has never used before." He showed John the text on the screen.

**5.12am Clear line of sight on tin soldier. Leave in next five minutes. Delay and he is history. I can see you and will know if you contact anyone.**

John just closed his eyes in despair, as Mycroft continued, "I've had that liquid analysed. It's an extremely fast acting cardiac paralytic, based on digitalis. I suspect Mrs Hudson's foxgloves to be the source. In a modest dose, fatal; even a small dose would seriously incapacitate someone in seconds. My guess is that Sherlock knew a gun would be taken off of him, but a syringe with a dose of this could be hidden in a place that would escape even a full body search."

John's medical knowledge conjured up such a place.

Mycroft grimaced. "Yes, well, an addict knows about body cavities and what can be hidden in them. He anticipated something like this and wanted to be prepared." Mycroft's tone showed his emotions firmly in check, back in the cold calculating mode of operation as if last night's display of temper had been a figment of John's imagination.

"You've made no progress yet on deciphering his wall chart?"

Mycroft shook his head. "GCHQ and MI5 are fighting over which wants to recruit him for their cryptography teams, but other than that, no progress."

"Well, you can tell them that the last one on the right had something to do with me. And whatever the rest of it is, it was enough to make Sherlock angry. He's going after him alone, isn't he?"

"We have to assume that is a possibility. Presumably under the guise of accepting Moriarty's offer, he might just get close enough."

"Mycroft, Sherlock is not a killer. He won't just go...he can't, it's premeditated!"

"One could build a strong case for self-defence, John. However, we also have to consider that this just might be a smoke screen. That message could be a ploy to make us think that he is taking Moriarty on, when in fact he might actually be joining him."

"No, I won't believe that of him."

"Forgive me, John, your loyalty is commendable but not necessarily warranted. I have known him a lot longer than you.  _Both_  are possible. And whether it's murder or merger on his mind, we have to stop him and put him and you out of Moriarty's reach for as long as it takes."

For a moment, John wondered if it was that threat, the idea of being locked up with nothing to do to occupy him, which could have provoked Sherlock to flee. "What can I do to help? I can't just sit here!"

"If you want him to survive this, then I need you to do something that I warned you about before. I need you to lie to him. If he thinks that Moriarty has already made a move to harm you, then that might stop him from joining up, and bring him back here. On the other hand, it may provoke a rash attempt to kill Moriarty, which could end up with him getting hurt, or worse. To be honest, I am having difficulties predicting his behaviour right now."

"No, I won't be used that way- not by you, not by Moriarty. No games, Mycroft. But neither am I going to be shoved into some protective custody or safe house, either. I need to find him."

Mycroft looked at him, and said scathingly,"so do we all. Any ideas on just how to do that would be gratefully appreciated, doctor."

John wished he had an answer, but didn't. 


	20. Civilian Casualty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings for violence, drug abuse and threat of non-consensual sex. If these are not your scene, then skip onto chapter twenty one.

Sherlock did not resist capture; in fact, when Moran walked up to him sitting on a bench in Regent's Park, he simply crushed out the cigarette he was smoking and said in a bored voice, "oh, let's get this over with then."

Moran had not wasted a minute. A fist collided with Sherlock's solar plexus driven by the power and skill of a former special ops army officer. The detective had dropped like a stone, and when on his hands and knees trying to convince his paralysed diaphragm to drag in a breath, Moran followed it up with a handkerchief full of chloroform over his mouth. Sherlock hardly had the strength to struggle before blackness claimed him.

When Sherlock woke, his first sensation was that he was cold, and dreadfully uncomfortable. His arms were tied above his head and he was suspended on some sort of hook. His bare feet were bound, tied together at the ankles. The blindfold he could live with, and he was supremely grateful that they had not gagged him, because he was struggling to deal with the nausea that came from chloroform use. He realised that he was cold because he was naked, and that annoyed him. Creating a sense of helplessness and humiliation was just basic abduction technique, and he had thought Moriarty to be more subtle than that. He tried to lift his legs, only to discover that his bound ankles were tethered to the floor through a metal ring. He retreated to his mind palace to wait.

Eventually, he heard a door opening to the left, giving him a chance to estimate the size of the room from the echoes. His powers of deduction did not need eyesight. The sounds indicated a space probably no more than 5 meters square, likely concrete floor and walls, a low ceiling, if the echoes were anything to go by. Steps approached him- boots and a military pace. There was a tell-tale scent of gun oil.

"Well, Moran, nice to see that you have skills other than being a butler and a kitchen maid."

His wit was rewarded by a series of heavy blows to his chest and abdomen. Between gritted teeth, Sherlock wheezed, "Needed some boxing practice, then? It must be nice to have a convenient punching bag." Sebastian just renewed his jabs, taking obvious pleasure at the sound of his fists on a body.

When he stepped back to catch his breath, the bruised and bloodied detective was grateful for the respite. _Let him gloat_.

"Thought you might like to know, smartass, it's now three o'clock and your deadline is long past gone. Jim thinks you've stood him up for good. Of course, he doesn't realise that I've intervened. I have no idea whether you were coming to kill him or kiss him, but I decided that I didn't like either of those scenarios. My mission has been accomplished. Hell hath no fury like a Moriarty scorned. He will go after you now with a vengeance, and I will get to be his avenging angel. So, clever clogs, think on that while you hang there like so much dead meat."

The sound of boots walking away and the door shut with a metallic clang, leaving Sherlock alone with his pain. His hypersensitivity often meant that the slightest touch, sound or scent could become annoying. Too much of any one thing could become excruciating. And yet, when subjected to severe pain stimulus, the neural effects were different. It was as if the pain signal blew away every other synaptic firing. It was part of the reason why Sherlock had dabbled with cutting when he was younger, and why once when he was seventeen and in a meltdown, he'd smashed his fist through a window. The resulting pain just overwhelmed every other sensation and cleared his head in a flash. It was like a power surge hitting his hard drive, forcing a restart.

Moran's beating had accomplished the same feat. Strung up like a side of beef, amidst the pain of severe bruising, several cracked or broken ribs, and God knows what internal organ damage, Sherlock experienced something of an epiphany. He realised now that Moran would never allow him to get anywhere near Moriarty.  _Stupid, oh, so stupid. I always miss something_! Sherlock had underestimated the importance of the sniper's jealousy, relegating him to the role of a bit part player, and focusing purely on the Irishman. Yet, in the very next moment, he also realised that Moran would not dare to kill him, lest Moriarty found out who was behind it. The man would not take kindly to his subordinate depriving him of the fun of destroying Sherlock, and getting at the elder Holmes in the process.

The other bit of good news was that Moran would not be able to move against either John or Mycroft, without alerting Moriarty to his role.  _Safe, at least they are safe, too._ Given he was also likely to emerge from the ordeal alive, what would Moran do to him? Hurt him certainly. Humiliate him, of course. Find a way to show his boss how wrong he was to be attracted to him.  _Hmm. Lots of ways to do that._  He started to prepare himself mentally for the worst. The most frustrating thing was that his hands were strung up above his head, so his only weapon was out of reach.

By his calculation, about three hours had passed before the door opened again. This time a second pair of feet accompanied Moran, belonging to someone who was bigger, heavier than the sniper. He could hear the man breathing through his mouth. "Oh, Moran, brought in the heavy brigade, have you? Can't stand to get your hands actually dirty then?" Sherlock let the sarcasm show. He was rewarded by another thrashing, but this time it was delivered with more force by the second man, whose fists felt like they were the size of hams. At some point, Sherlock passed out, only to be woken with a start by a bucket of cold water being thrown over him.

Someone yanked his head up by the hair- even in the painful haze, Sherlock could deduce from the scent that this time it was Moran. "I have things to do and places to be seen, so that no one will suspect my role in teaching you a lesson. This guy's my alibi, and it so happens he just  _loves_  to hurt people."

He released his grip on Sherlock's hair and said "He's all yours, just whatever you do, don't kill him. If you do that, then I will have to kill you, your family and anyone else I can think of that might matter to you." With that Moran walked away and the door shut again. Sherlock was surprised when the thug simply wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and lifted him until his tied hands came free of the hook on which he had been suspended. Then he was unceremoniously dropped on the concrete floor. Winded from the beating, and stunned by the fall, Sherlock just tried to concentrate on staying conscious. Then he wished he hadn't bothered, as the feeling began to return to his arms and hands. For hours he had lost most sensation in those limbs, but the blood flowing back into them was like liquid fire. Within a minute, the detective was writhing in pain.

Just when he thought he couldn't bear much more, he felt those arms grab him around the waist again and sling him up over the man's shoulders as if he were no more than a rucksack. He carried his burden to the side of the room and then dropped Sherlock off his shoulder. In a split second, the detective tried to prepare his body for hitting the concrete floor again, but was surprised to land on a softer surface- a mattress, which clearly from the sound was on a metal bedstead. Then he smelt chloroform again, and the drug took him back into darkness.

When he woke up again, he was face down on the mattress, spread-eagled with his wrists and feet tied to the four posts of the metal bedframe. He had no idea how much time might have passed. On this occasion, he could not fight off the nausea caused by the chloroform, and he vomited. At least he was able to turn his face to the side, so he could avoid aspirating his own puke. There was nothing in his stomach except bile, but his sense of smell could detect the metallic tang of blood in what he had spewed.  _Wonderful, stomach's probably bleeding from the beating._ To his disgust, he also realised that it had been hours since he had been anywhere near a bathroom, and he had an unforgiving need to urinate.  _Who knows, maybe it will smell better than the scent of the vomit._  So he just released his bladder.

The blindfold had been tightened while he was unconscious, and he was unable to see anything, but he believed himself to be alone in the room. There were no sounds of another person breathing, or moving, so it was likely he was on his own. He did an inventory of his pains. The blows to his chest and back registered high- clearly some ribs were broken. His lungs burned, and the cold was unbearable. Getting wet from that bucket of water seemed to have set off chills, with each shudder sending ripples of pain up his side. Being face down wasn't great for his breathing; he was starting to cough, but each time he did so, the stitch of pain in his ribs was almost blinding. His lower back on the right side ached terribly and it had hurt a lot when he had peed.  _Bruised kidney at best, possibly damaged._ He couldn't tell if there was blood in his urine- the iron tang was already soaked into the mattress from his vomiting.

In the back of his mind through all of this was the knowledge that he had a weapon stashed in the brass cylinder that he had secreted up his anus. If he could get a hand free, then he might be able to use it against his jailer. But, as he pulled at the handcuffs around the bedframe, he wondered just how the hell he was going to ever get the chance to recover it.

He could not be sure whether he slept or passed out, so was even more confused about elapsed time when he woke up again. The heavy feet came near to the bed. The detective heard the sound of the man taking a leather jacket off. "You're going to like this, pretty boy". The accent was thick.  _Russian?- Yes, definitely._

Before Sherlock could deduce to the point of certainty, his left arm was seized in a lock hold and he felt the prick of a needle going into the median cubital vein.  _Ah, a fellow user!_  His captor knew exactly the right spot to inject. Sherlock felt the warmth radiating up his arm and knew it to be an opiate- probably heroin, maybe morphine. Like liquid fire the drug travelled up his carotid artery into his brain. Pain dissipated into grey wooliness, as the effect hit his senses in a rush.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked in a gasp.

"Boss says you are to be returned as damaged goods. He says you're an addict, so this will set you back onto your bad habits. Also, helps make you compliant for what I have in mind. "

With that threat in mind, Sherlock tried to swim against the tide of the drug, but found his mind clouding over. He was no longer cold, and the chills stopped. His breathing eased and became slower. His mouth dried. He decided to ignore the man and just ride the drug as it slowly shut down his mind palace and stilled the sensory data storm that was his normal life. It had been more than a decade since he'd tried heroin and almost five years since he had taken morphine, but the memory of its delicious  _nothingness_  woke up from where it had been sleeping.

"Hmmmm." He could not be sure at first if his hum of appreciation had been vocalised or just thought- that was the effect of the drug, blurring the edges of where his mind and his body operated.

Vaguely, noises penetrated his consciousness- the sound of a zipper being pulled down, and then clothing being removed. He felt hands then on his lower back, moving to his buttocks. He groaned, as the euphoria caused by the drug went to war with the knowledge of what was coming next from the captor. He could not see, but he could hear, so his imagination supplied the picture of the man unwrapping a condom.  _Oh God, the cylinder is in there, and either he will find it, or it will get pushed into my intestine! There is something I can do here; have to think, why can't I think?!_

 _OH, yes! That will work!_ Moran's attempt to humiliate him by sexual abuse was going to solve the problem that he had been wrestling with ever since his capture- how to get the cylinder out of its hiding place without attracting attention. The sniper had unwittingly given him the perfect excuse.

The bed springs complained as the thug clambered on to straddle Sherlock's legs.

"Wait! пожалуйста ждите ( _please wait_ )!" He spat the words out, and his use of Russian had the desired effect. The hands lifted off his back in surprise.

"If you are going to do what I think you are going to do," the detective gasped, "you are going to want to let me take care of something first. I haven't had a crap in fifteen hours. You really want to let me clear things out a bit."

The man made a disgusted noise. The bed springs shifted as he hauled himself off the mattress. He untied Sherlock's legs, and unlocked the handcuff on his right hand, then pushed him off the bed onto the floor.

"дерьмо ( _shit_ )!"

His left hand was still cuffed to the bedstead, but the detective squatted down with his buttocks tucked almost under the metal bed frame. From here his retrieval would not be visible. He used his freed right hand to reach behind and up into his anus to remove the cylinder. His arms and legs felt so heavy from the drug, and he had to force himself to focus. There was no time for finesse, and the drug numbed his sense of touch anyway, so he just ripped in, ignoring the likelihood that he would be tearing sensitive tissues.

He started to cough to muffle the sounds that might be made by the metal on the concrete. Managing to get the tube onto the floor and prised open without attracting attention, he was able to palm the syringe.

"торопитесь ( _hurry)_!"

"Alright, I'm done, but I can't stand up, my legs aren't working." It wasn't actually a lie; the drug's sedative effects were beginning to creep up on him. Sherlock slurred his speech and coughed again. Those huge hands grabbed him by the waist and started to lift him onto the bed. In one fluid movement, Sherlock's right hand came down on what he estimated would be the man's thigh, sticking the hypodermic needle in with force and driving the plunger down with his palm.

There was a roar of rage, and then a gasped curse- "прокляните Вас! ( _damn you_!)" Sherlock was unceremoniously dumped onto the bed as the thug shuddered, his body convulsing as the paralytic hit his heart muscle. The man gasped, and drew a frantic breath, before collapsing in a heap onto the detective.

Under the influence of the drugs, Sherlock found himself giggling; it would be just his luck to get half crushed by his own escape plan. He tried to control his laughter and focus on the task at hand. First steps were to push the body off, get the blindfold off and figure out where the guy's trousers were, because that was most likely the place where he would find the handcuff key. His hands were shaky, and his eyes stunned by the brightness of the light after so many hours of being blindfolded. Somewhere amongst the cotton wool that seemed to fill his head, he came upon a fact- his pupils were probably blown wide open by the drug, making things even worse.

Sherlock found the guy's trousers and pants on the floor beside the bed, and fumbled in the pockets until he found the key to the cuffs. Once he had freed his left hand, he staggered about the room in the hope of finding his own clothes, but they must have been taken by Moran. So he stripped off the shirt from the body of his captor- and pulled it and the discarded trousers -all way too big on the slender detective, but he was grateful for the warmth.

The man's cell phone in his jacket pocket was the next acquisition, but it would not get a signal;  _possibly in a basement then?_  He cuffed the body to the bed.  _No reason to make it easy for Moran to dispose of the evidence of his failure._

To avoid attracting Moriarty's attention, Sherlock deduced that Moran would have kept the personnel involved with this little abduction down to a minimum, so it was highly unlikely that there would be a guard or anyone to stop his escape now. The Russian's curse had been loud enough to attract attention, but there had been no interruption, so the detective forced his legs into action, opened the door and started up the stairs to street level. There was still just enough euphoria to keep his brain focused. He figured all he had to do was stay awake long enough to get out of the building and to somewhere safe enough to make a phone call.

He emerged onto a back alley off Exeter Street, vaguely recognising the area from his mind map. A light rain was falling, and it was dark. The temperature had fallen dramatically, and he hunched into the too big jacket and stumbled off toward the main market area of Covent Garden, where there would be some safety in the crowds. He had to get away from the basement, and only stop in a place where Moran would not find him, if he returned to the basement before Sherlock could get his rescue organised.

The local theatres and the Royal Opera House had just disgorged their audiences to join the crowds of young people thronging the area. Sherlock kept his head down. Feeling the effects of the drug now, each step was growing more and more difficult. Stumbling in the oversized shoes did not attract undue attention- enough pedestrians in the area were worse for drink, after a night out. Darkness seemed to sit on the sides of his vision, and he found it hard to keep his eyes open. Too little sleep, no food and serious dehydration combined with the physical effects of the beating would have been bad enough, but the drugs were proving to be the final straw.

Sherlock made it to the church at the western end of the market, and realised he was going to have to stop before he collapsed. Against the wall of the church, he sank down to the ground with his back up against the stone façade. Fumbling in the jacket pocket for the phone, he tried to focus on the backlit screen. The drizzle had turned to a sharp shower, and it made the screen slippery.  _Have to think; not my phone, Moran could be spying on this one. Can't tell them exactly where I am._

He started to type in the first few digits of John's phone.  _No, wait, there is something wrong with that. What is it? Why can't I call John?_ He shook his head, trying to clear his thinking.  _John lost his phone; Moriarty has it._  Painstakingly, he typed in the numbers of Mycroft's personal phone instead . His vision kept blurring, but there was no time to correct his typing mistakes. Eventually, he managed:

**0.28 Myc, 25ExtrStbsment actors + hur….**

His vision started to tunnel, with blackness closing in on all sides. As his head dropped to his chest, he squeezed his thumb almost instinctively, hitting the send button.


	21. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St Pauls Church in Covent Garden is known as the "actors' church", as it is nearest to the large number of West End theatres of London. Sherlock's code was to try to tell Mycroft where he was without revealing it too easily to someone who might be listening in on the jailer's phone. Drug use can cause paranoia!

Angel swam through the night crowds of Covent Garden. She liked this time of night. It was possible in the darkness to be mistaken for one of the revellers- out for a good time with her friends, or perhaps a girlfriend out to meet her date, anticipating dinner, maybe a show, or on the way to a club. Covent Garden was more upmarket than Leicester Square, and attracted a better class of target. She was on the prowl for whatever she could pick up easily. The restaurants and bars surrounding the market had tables outside, some heated by large gas burners to keep the chill away. Too much to drink and too many distractions meant people got careless. They left handbags and briefcases unattended, phones on tables, coats slung carelessly over the back of chairs. It was all easy pickings for someone dressed vaguely like everyone else. She was glad the showers had eased off now, and more outside seats under the big umbrellas were being taken.

She had tucked her magenta hair up in a reggae cap to blend in even more. Her first success of the night was to snag a jacket off the back of a chair at the Punch and Judy pub. She put it on over her sweatshirt, a good disguise. She then harvested a backpack from under a table, taking it around the corner and down to the lower level of the market building before rummaging in it to see what treasures it hid. Disappointingly, it held only a couple of books, a scarf and an Oyster card. Only the latter was of any use to her. She ditched the backpack under another table at the wine bar down there.

Returning to street level, she wandered over to the church at the west end of the market square, seeking a good vantage point to watch the grounds. There was a street performer at work, drawing attention away from bags and brief cases that were put down so the audience could applaud his extraordinary juggling skills. Lifting a Joe Malone shopping bag, she hurried to the side of the church where should could investigate the contents more, and transfer what she could sell into her anonymous jute bag before disposing of the incriminating branded bag. She glanced to her left and saw a sitting man, his phone in his lap. He looked drunk or drugged, his head slumped onto his chest. He was also soaked to the skin, hair plastered to his skull, so obviously had been out here during the recent shower. She wondered if she would be able to get the phone off of him without him waking.

"Hey, mister. Could I borrow your phone? My battery's died and I need to phone my boyfriend to see where we are supposed to meet."

There was no reply so she felt emboldened. She crouched down beside him and reached for the phone. As she took it off his lap, she looked into his face, just to be sure that he wasn't likely to be waking any time soon.

"Oh, Siggy, I didn't recognise you! Are you alright, mate?"

She shook his shoulder to see if she could wake him, and was dismayed when the sitting figure just seemed to crumple up and slip down sideways onto the ground. She grabbed the phone and dug out a piece of paper from her pocket, so she could key in Raz's number. The message had gone all around the network, and she knew that there would be a reward.  _Besides, this is Siggy. We need to look after our own._

oOo

In response to Sherlock's earlier text, two black government cars converged at speed, one from the east, the other from the west, down Exeter Street. Behind them, the Metropolitan Police closed off both ends of the road. The first car to arrive spewed four agents, who burst through the metal door of number 25 and poured down the staircase to the basement. The second car door opened to let a certain British Government official out, accompanied by another agent, who purposefully stood between him and the door to number 25.

"Please wait, sir, until we get the all clear."

Mycroft just glared at the man, who then swallowed and stood aside.

As he went down the stairs to the basement, he could hear the men who had preceded him. No sign of gunfire or sounds of a struggle, which could mean a number of things, several of which were worrying.

He pushed open the door onto a windowless room, lit by a single strip of fluorescent tube. Empty apart from a metal bed, with a naked body of a large man cuffed to it. The leader of the agent team nodded, confirming what Mycroft suspected. "He's dead, sir. No immediate cause indicated. Might be Russian, based on the prison tat on his left shoulder."

Mycroft glanced around the room. The smell was …disturbing- vomit, urine and blood. The other agents were examining the walls, floor and ceiling with forensic intensity. All of them had pulled on latex gloves. Mycroft spotted two syringes on the floor, which the team leader collected and bagged. Another agent reached up to pull a hook from the ceiling, directly above a metal ring set into the concrete floor. Two of the agents worked together to turn the heavy body over and extracted a condom, which Mycroft noted was used but which contained no apparent semen.

Then the fourth agent reached under the bed and pulled out two pieces of a small brass cylinder. This was greeted with a grimace from Mycroft. "That's likely confirmation that Sherlock was here- and it is probably linked to the body's cause of death."

He sighed. "I want lab confirmations as quickly as possible; fingerprints, DNA samples of the blood, vomit and anything else you can find."

He wearily climbed the stairs back to the car, where Anthea was waiting. She did not have to ask, as his face showed enough. Mycroft sat down heavily and pursed his lips. "It would appear that Sherlock escaped, but his message suggests he is …not in full control of his faculties. He wanted us to find the place where he was held hostage, but was not willing to say directly where he was going- perhaps because he was concerned that the message would be intercepted. So, he was probably using the dead man's phone."

"There is a dead man down there, sir?" She started to tap in a message into her Blackberry, notifying a clean-up squad.

"Yes, it appears that Sherlock was able to use the drug that he manufactured at Baker Street last night."

"Sir, what did the text mean-'actor's cross'? Could it be code for where he was headed?"

"Yes. The question is what does it mean?" He closed his eyes and thought hard. Moments passed.

oOo

At almost exactly the same time, across London John came out of the front door of 221b at a flat run, causing a number of his surveillance team to sprint into action. He was intercepted within ten feet of the front door by two men who took him by the arms.

"I've had a text; I know here he is. Let me go NOW."

His army command tone had no effect on the agents. The doctor struggled, but then relaxed. "Ok, let me show you the text. It's from Sherlock's homeless network- they've spotted him in Covent Garden. Call your team and get me a car so we can get there. You can come with me; in fact, I insist on it."

They let him pull out his phone and show them the text. Then one of them was on his own phone. The black car appeared moments later. Once in the car and underway, the other agent spoke briefly on his phone, and then nodded.

"Seems you're right. His brother is already in that area."

John pulled out his own phone again and hit speed dial.

"Mycroft, where are you? Have you found him?"

Whatever the elder Holmes said clearly displeased the doctor. "My text from Raz says Sherlock is at St Paul's church at Covent Garden."

"Actor's cross? Well, if you say so. OK, meet you there."

The next eleven minutes passed too slowly. The driver had switched on blue flashing lights hidden in the front grill and used a siren to get across key intersections, but when the traffic backed up at Tottenham Court Road, it was all John could do to not wrench open the door and start running past the snarl up. The agent with him put a restraining hand on his arm and said quietly, "This will clear in a minute or two, and it will be faster to stay with the car, sir."

They were at Cambridge Circus when John's phone went off again. "Yes?" The agent beside him watched as John's face tightened, and he closed his eyes. "How is he?"

Whatever was said on the other end of the phone clearly did not please the doctor. "Ok, we are on our way."

He leaned forward to tap on the smoked glass window separating the passengers from the driver.

"Yes sir?"

"We've been re-directed to St Thomas's Accident and Emergency entrance; get us there as quickly as possible."

It took them another nine minutes to reach the hospital. Luckily, south of the river traffic thinned out, allowing the car to make good time past Waterloo station and Westminster Bridge. John directed the driver to drop him off in the A&E ambulance bay- strictly against the rules, but he didn't give a damn. The car had scarcely drawn to a halt before he was out of the door, followed closely by the agent who had adopted the role of body guard.

He ran up to the casualty reception window.

"I'm Doctor John Watson and you've just brought in a 33 year old white male unconscious. I'm his doctor and need to be there when he is being examined." He showed the receptionist ID, and was buzzed through, taking in her instructions –"He's in Trauma Room One"- as he broke into a run. The agent tasked with keeping him protected was left pacing in frustration behind the barrier, trying to explain to the receptionist just why he had to be let through, too.

John didn't need to search for the room; he could see down the corridor another pair of agents standing outside. They must have recognised him as he came up because the stood aside to let him enter. The scene that greeted him when he went through the double swing doors was something out of his nightmares.


	22. Resuscitation

_....The scene that greeted him when he went through the double swing doors was something out of his nightmares…_

Sherlock's clothing was being cut off of him by a cluster of three nurses, as three doctors swarmed about him. A cardiac monitor started to beep as soon as the finger clip was attached. 

"Care to do the honours, Doctor Patel?" This calm request came from the doctor who was clearly in charge of the trauma team. John's attention momentarily drifted to the rest of the medical people in the room, and that's when he spotted Mycroft in the corner. He raised an eyebrow of acknowledgement, before both of them focused on the patient again.

"Approximately thirty year old male presenting with serious contusions, unconscious; vitals- 83/60, tachypnenic, slight tracheal deviation to the right, he's cyanotic, clear hypoxemia, respiratory distress, likely pulmonary haemorrhage."

"Proceed with a chest tube, Doctor Patel." St Thomas's is a teaching hospital, and the chief resident was not going to miss an opportunity.

The Chief Resident continued. "We need saline stat; he's very dehydrated."

"Type and cross match…"

John stepped forward. "O Negative"

"And who are you?" The Resident peered over his glasses at John.

"Doctor John Watson. Ex RAMC battlefield trauma specialist, his doctor and his friend."

"I'm Rogerson", he replied. "Doctor Watson, you have no privileges at this hospital, so I am going to ask you to remember you are an observer. That said, I welcome your input if you think we need it. You heard him, nurse. A unit of O neg, please."

He turned back to the patient on the table. Sherlock was soaked to the skin, and pale. He lifted the right eyelid, then the left. "Pupils dilated, equal but very sluggish. Tox screen please and a full panel."

"Doctor, his temperature is 38.9." The junior doctor was listening to Sherlock's breathing with a stethoscope. "Breath sounds are unequal on the left side; evidence of bilateral crackles. Suspected pneumonia."

"Right. Dr Seward, please intubate the patient." The junior doctor moved to the head of the table, lifted Sherlock's chin and began to angle a laryngoscope into his mouth. Once the tube was in and the bag attached, a nurse began to count, inflating and then squeezing in a regular sequence.

The remnants of shirt and trousers were removed. John flinched, as the full extent of the bruising on Sherlock's chest and abdomen became apparent. Another nurse finished inserting the Foley catheter.

"Portable X Ray and ultrasound, please nurse". Doctor Rogerson began to use his fingers to probe for fractures and organ damage. "How are you getting on there with the chest tube, Patel?"

"Nearly there, sir."

The clear plastic tube protruding from Sherlock's left side suddenly tuned bright red, and the bag attached began to fill with blood.

The team working on Sherlock stood away from the table and retreated to the edges of the room, as the portable x ray machine was used. Mycroft and John exchanged a worried glance, as the medical team rushed back to the patient as soon as the machine switched off.

The nurse then wheeled an ultrasound machine up to the table, as the team returned to work. One of the junior doctors began to lubricate the head of the wand and also Sherlock's abdomen.

"Fluid in Morison's pouch, sir."

"What's his urinary output look like?" The junior doctor shook his head. "Poor- with traces of blood, sir."

"Show me the chest tube blood loss, Doctor Patel". The junior doctor held up the bag collecting the internal bleeding.

"Right." There was a grimness now to Doctor Rogerson's tone. "He needs a central line. An 8.5 French, as quick as you can. Call up OR and get a team ready. Push two more units."

"Nurse, are the x rays up yet?" Behind him on the wall were a series of light boxes, on which the nurse was posting the x rays. Even from where he was standing, John could see that there were four ribs fractured; he'd need to be closer to see if others were cracked. The sixth and seventh ribs on the left had taken the worst hit; the sixth was broken in three places.  _Bitch to heal; possible pulmonary contusion._  John tried to muzzle himself. Interfering in a trauma team's work was just not on, even if it was his best friend lying on the table. But, his own ribs, cracked only a week ago at the pool, ached in sympathy.

"Blood work, sir. Hematocrit is ..normal range, sir." The doctor sounded puzzled.

The Chief Resident shook his head. "It's misleading, isn't it. The haemorrhage should result in lower levels, but the dehydration should present as a high level. Put the two together and what do you get?"

"Right, sir," the junior doctor continued, "electrolytes and blood sugars are very low. Tox screen shows positive for both heroin and morphine, sir."

John just groaned. Mycroft shook his head and said quietly, "I expect it was administered by his captors. We are examining the evidence now."

"Captors? What do you mean?" Doctor Rogerson had heard the comment.

Mycroft replied. "Your patient was kidnapped and brutally assaulted, doctor. I rather doubt his enemies worried about whether he was drinking or eating enough."

This caustic comment got a head shake from the doctor. "These injuries are severe enough without adding the psychological issues of a kidnapping. Nasty business." He finished checking the central line work of the junior doctor. An alarm went off, and all eyes swung to the cardiac monitor. A nurse announced calmly. "Tachycardia, sir."

"Tracheal deviation has actually eased, so this is probably due to hypotension. No apparent signs of haemothorax or pneumothorax. Let's hope increasing blood volume will solve that little problem".

The monitor's rhythm seemed to change. "A run of four PVCs, sir."

Doctor Rogerson looked down at Sherlock. "Now that's enough of that, young man. Just settle down until we can get fluids into you."

John stepped forward. "He has some history of cocaine abuse; there could be cardiac compromise."

"That's interesting to note, Doctor Watson. Dr Patel, what can you advise us about this?" His question was calm and almost conversational.

"There is no enlargement evidence on the x-ray, sir, but things could have changed in the minutes since the films were taken. We need to rule out tamponade. I suggest running a full ECG, echo and cardiac enzymes. "

"Then make it so, Doctor Patel, and make sure the surgical team is advised."

"The OR's ready, sir."

"Right, pack him up and get him up there, Doctor Patel. The sooner the surgeons can find out where he is bleeding, the better."

As the trolley was rolled out, one of the two agents accompanied Sherlock to the lift. Back in the trauma room, the team began to remove their gloves and the sterile gowns protecting their clothes.

Dr Rogerson came over to John and Mycroft. "Well, he's had one hell of a beating, but as long as the surgeons can stop the bleeding, then he might just get away with this. Let's hope that the left kidney is just bruised and not seriously damaged. The thing that worries me longer term is the compromised lung function. Pulmonary contusions can lead to diffuse bleeding. And pneumonia can be very tough even when you are otherwise well. His fever will also extend the post-operative healing. Not a great prognosis, I am afraid, and it will take time to be sure he is out of the woods."

"There is something else I need to mention, given what you said about abduction. The initial exam indicated anal bleeding and tissue damage consistent with non-consensual sex. Normally that's reported to the police, and evidence is gathered. We'll have to do it after surgery."

John's heart just sank. He looked at Mycroft for some kind of reaction .

"There will be no need for that, Doctor. We have the crime scene secured and all the evidence we need. You will ensure that the local police are NOT contacted about this."

Doctor Rogerson thought about it for a moment, "I assume you have the authority to do that?" When Mycroft nodded, the doctor went on, "given no further complications, his likely recuperation period from the rib injuries and pulmonary and/or cardiac contusions means he's going to need a lot of care. This kind of assault is traumatic enough, not to mention the drugs issues." The doctor looked at Mycroft with a frown. "If he is important enough to warrant personal protection from a government body guard, I suggest that you do a better job of protecting your brother in the future."

"Oh, I shall, Doctor Rogerson, never fear."


	23. Recovery?

Mycroft disappeared while John was waiting for news about Sherlock's surgery. Hours of waiting in plastic chairs in a small room with other patients' family members was a particular kind of hell for John, so he wasn't surprised that Mycroft would find some other pressing concern to get him out of it. No one in the waiting room spoke much, the faces were tight and drawn. When the door opened and a doctor came in, their expressions combined both a hope and a dread, until words could fill the gap and expectations could be satisfied or fears confirmed. John had hated this part of his surgery rotation in medical school. Despite the severity of the battlefield traumas he later dealt with in Afghanistan, the one saving grace was the lack of loved ones hanging on his every word, just after surgery. The army took care of communicating with families of wounded soldiers who were thousands of miles away, so John didn't have to.

Now that he was one of those waiting, he couldn't help but twitch every time the door opened. He kept reassuring himself; the kind of exploratory surgery needed to find Sherlock's internal bleeding and survey the damage would not be quick. He tried to imagine the whole process, having done it himself countless times in Afghanistan.

The trouble was, this was not some nameless soldier on the operating table. It was Sherlock. Instead of rehearsing each stroke of the scalpel and practiced move, John found himself conjuring up all the things that can go wrong in what should be a straight forward operation.

After the first hour, he could no longer bear sitting still, and went out to see if he could distract himself with a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, he discovered that St Thomas's coffee was no better than the swill that came out of the machines at St Barts, so after a few sips, he gave up on that, too. He glared at the suited man who had fallen in step beside him when he left the room. "Want some? It's revolting, but at least it has caffeine."

"No, thank you, sir. Caffeine may help reaction times, but I don't need the stimulant to be able to do my job here."

John decided to ignore him; despite all of Mycroft's men and the web of surveillance that he had at his beck and call, nothing had stopped Sherlock from walking into danger. He tried not to blame the man beside him; it wasn't his fault that Sherlock was simply too clever at avoiding protection, after a lifetime of being Mycroft's brother.

In fact, John realised that it was nobody's  _fault,_ unless it was Moriarty's. The doctor had been ready to blame everyone- Mycroft, Sherlock, John had even blamed himself for not being able to stop Sherlock from being…well, Sherlock. In fact, the real problem was Moriarty, and squabbling between themselves about who was to blame just seemed pointless.

It was leaning up against the wall, contemplating the awfulness of waiting, that Mycroft found him. His demeanour seemed calmer now than it had almost two hours before when Sherlock went into surgery, and for a moment, John wondered if he had news.

"No, John, I haven't heard anything yet."  _Damn the Holmes brothers; they both seem able to read my mind._

"But, I have some information about what led to his injuries. The forensic data suggests that Sherlock was drugged by his captor, as I thought. Sherlock's dead jailor turns out to be one Vladimir Kropitkin, a Russian immigrant suspected of involvement in a number of smuggling and people trafficking operations, including that one that Sherlock and you brought to justice six months ago. The Russian's were the only fingerprints on the syringe with the heroin and morphine. The drug in the second syringe was highly unusual- and it matches the formula in the flask that we picked up from Baker Street. This syringe had Sherlock's prints on it and the drug was not detectable in the dead man, who died of a massive heart attack. Needless to say, MI6 is very interested in a drug that can do that without being traced."

Mycroft continued, "there is no obvious connection between Kropitkin and Jim Moriarty, and to be honest, the whole abduction seems to have been done in a rather haphazard manner- just not his style at all."

"What, you think someone  _else_  was involved? That Moriarty didn't have a hand in it?" John could hardly contain his incredulity.

"Well, the message posted on the internet forum didn't sound like Moriarty, did it? More like one of the subordinates."

John remembered the three men in the locker room, especially the one who had used the knife. "But, if that was the case, then surely Moriarty would be behind it?"

"Not necessarily. We don't know, but it is possible that the sniper was acting independently. Or it is a genuine coincidence and the Russians just chose this time to have a go at Sherlock. It might explain the slip-shod nature of the abduction. I expect that Sherlock will have figured it out, so I will ask him when he regains consciousness."

John breathed a little prayer.  _Let it be when rather than if he wakes up, please. _As if she had heard his request, a nurse approached the men. "Are you waiting for news about Sherlock Holmes? If so, the surgeon has been looking for you; I'll tell him that you are here."

John could tell that the news was good even before the surgeon reached them. After years of being a doctor, he had learned to read medical body language from halfway down a hospital corridor. Mycroft must have been able to deduce the same, as he visibly relaxed his shoulders before the surgeon could even introduce himself.

"I'm Robert Chalke, and I am pleased to say that your patient has come through the surgery well. We found the bleeder- a shredded artery under the sixth rib that was fractured in three places- and did a vein graft. The fracture itself is a mess, so we used a ribloc titanium plate. The other three fractures didn't need stabilisation; and there are two more cracked. The risk of separation from the chest wall is real, so we are keeping a careful eye on his breathing. His left kidney took a beating, but we think the damage will heal. His right lung is bruised, and, given the pneumonia, that will take a while longer to heal, I am afraid. But we've managed to get the fever down to a lower level, pumped him full of amoxicillin, and the intubation is making sure that his saturation levels are satisfactory. If he gets a pleural fluid build-up, we will drain it."

"I have recommended that he be kept under deep sedation for a few days until the heroin and morphine can clear his system; it should also reduce the withdrawal symptoms, which would put a strain on him that he can ill afford. We're dealing with the rehydration and getting some nutrients into him; he clearly hadn't eaten properly for some time."

Mycroft responded first. "Thank you, doctor. When do you think it will be safe to move him?"

"Well, I can't imagine that he would be ready to release for at least three weeks. If you are talking about a different hospital, then I would wait a while, and keep him sedated here. He needs to be kept intubated for at least three days, otherwise the pain is likely to supress his respiration and that will complicate the pneumonia even more. Once he recovers consciousness, then he will want to have the ventilation tube removed, and that will bring on coughing from the pneumonia- which will move his ribs and cause a lot of pain that we will only be able to medicate with non-opiate analgesics."

Mycroft shook his head. "I will need to move him while he is still sedated, and the sooner, the better from a security point of view."

The doctor looked puzzled for a moment, but then nodded. "I understand now- the man posted outside the operating room doors- a bodyguard?"

"Yes. And the longer he remains here at a public hospital, the more dangerous it is for him and for other patients who might get caught in the cross fire."

The surgeon pursed his lips. "Well, we will have to see how quickly he improves in post-op recovery and the acute care unit, but if he's lucky, he could be moved to another facility in say three days."

"Thank you doctor, that is most helpful. A single room will be easier to guard for those three days, and there will be less risk to other patients, so anything you can do in that area would be gratefully appreciated by all concerned."

"I will see what I can do, Mr Holmes."

As the surgeon left them, John turned to Mycroft. "So, where are you planning on moving him?"

"Somewhere with high fences, electronic locks and no known address."

John shook his head. "You weren't joking about 'house arrest'."

"Oh, he's gone way past that now. I am afraid it's off to the dungeons for him- a secure unit where he will have to accept that it takes time to recover, a place with continuous surveillance and military guards from which he can't just leave when the whim strikes him. He's given me no choice now."

John just sighed.  _Try telling that to Sherlock._


	24. Frustration

His bad mood had been building for days. Moran watched warily from the side lines, as Moriarty became more and more irritated with his subordinates. When the arrangement he organised with the syndicate running the VAT scam went pear-shaped due to the stupidity of one of the van drivers getting freaked at Dover's ferry port, the consulting criminal was incandescent.

"Why am I surrounded by IDIOTS? I deserve better, I really do. I come up with such beautiful plans only to watch morons make mincemeat of them. Fecking hell, no one with half a brain should have to put up with such incompetence, and yet it keeps coming, like the bloody rain falling on the bogs of Ireland- unrelentingly continuous monotonous STUPIDITY!"

Moriarty looks at the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration for his next move. Moran shifts his weight, tightening his muscles and preparing to tamp down the fight/flight reaction that his boss usually raised in him when he got so annoyed.

"Seb, darling…." He drawls this, letting his tongue savour the sound. "I need to watch you kill someone. Have you got a suitable candidate?"

Moran decides it is his chance to raise a topic that he has been avoiding all week. "How about Holmes Junior? Would that satisfy your blood lust?"

Moriarty spun around and fixed Moran in an icy glare.  _Reminds me of a king cobra_. The sniper tried to still his movements, suddenly realising just how serious a mistake he has made.

"Now that you mention it, that's a little something I've been meaning to talk to you about." The depth of cold unbridled menace in his tone makes Moran draw the kind of breath he was used to taking just before steadying himself for a kill shot.

"Your surveillance exercise on that flat has been a dismal failure, hasn't it, Sebbie? You not only didn't spot Sherlock's departure, but even when you found out about it, you haven't been able to locate him. Pathetic, that's what I'd call it in someone else. But you,  _you did it on purpose, didn't you?_  Couldn't stand the competition, could you? So, like some lily-livered coward, you're happy to let me thing you just let him run and hoped he won't come back. "

Moriarty walked up to the sniper and pushed him backwards. He revelled in the fact that he could, and the ex-army special ops man would just take it. "It would serve you right if I said yes- let's kill him. Trouble is, you can't because you've let him get taken by someone else, and now you can't actually satisfy me. In my book, that's an intolerable dereliction of duty. You're supposed to be the big bad soldier, but you've let someone else take him. That's what I call a dereliction of duty. And you calling Holmes a wimp? Well, look what he did to his captor. And he's _still_ out there, despite your best efforts."

"About that," Moran started, "there's a reason." He wondered if the story about the Russian smuggler abducting Holmes would stand up to Moriarty's scrutiny. It would have worked, if the idiot hadn't managed to get himself killed by his own prisoner. Moran's contacts had watched the government forensic teams take the basement store room to pieces, until they found the camera which the sniper had been using to watch his captive.  _Time to roll out Plan B._

"I think Big Bro took pre-emptive action. That text you made me send with the audio file seems to have tipped the balance, so I think he just yanked the guy's chain and reeled him into protective custody."  _Is that a get out of jail card- can make him think it's his fault?_

He watched as Moriarty's head moved in a lizard-like jerk to the side; it was the one tell that Moran had learned about the Irishman- a sure sign of an imminent explosion of temper.

"And, of course, you have no idea where that jail is, do you?"

 _Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you, lest you go running off after him like a bitch on heat._  Moran struggled to keep the thought off his face.

The slap across his cheek came so quickly that even his soldier's reaction speeds couldn't keep up. As the red splotch on his cheek blossomed, Moran's instincts warred with his common sense. His training screamed strike back, while his mind worked frantically to clamp down on his muscles. He knew that if he ever lost his temper and struck Moriarty, it would have to be a fatal blow. Anything less and the Irishman would take the delight of torturing him slowly, painfully until he was broken. Moran respected Moriarty's ability to break people; he'd been witness to enough of them to know that he would not be immune, should he ever irritate his superior enough.  _The cobra is not the biggest snake, but it is surely the most deadly._

"That's better, soldier boy. Just hold onto that temper now. Daddy is really, really cross with you; just might send you off to bed without your supper. And maybe watching you suffer would do wonders for my mood."

Moran decided distraction was the best defence. "If Holmes Senior has put his little brother in jail somewhere, then shouldn't we just get on with the main battle? Enough of the skirmishing on the sides, isn't it time for the big push?"

Moriarty came up to the blonde man and just sneered at him. "God above, you call that lump of meat between your ears a brain? This is why the British army lost an empire, I have no doubt. I DON'T WANT TO TAKE HIM ON FROM THE FRONT, YOU FOOL. The whole point of this is to provoke  _him_  into taking  _me_  on before he is ready, while he is still vulnerable to my dark angels, who will destroy him piece by piece, wiping that smug smile off that pompous face once and for all. Taking baby brother away from him was key to that, and to wrecking his credibility. Sweet Jesus, because of your ineptitude I don't even know if Sherlock was willing to betray his brother and join me. The most valuable weapon in my arsenal against that overweight twat, that aristocratic icicle – and you just gave it away through green-eyed jealousy!"

The Irishman's dark eyes seemed to bulge in their anger. "Ah, you're a piece of shite, but a good workman shouldn't blame his tools, so I suppose it's my own fault for thinking you could do anything other than point a gun at someone and make them dead for me. Sometimes I think I'd give my right arm for a really smart right hand man beside me, one truly worthy of being in my company. Oh, but you've done your best to make sure that's not going to happen, haven't you? If I had one piece of concrete evidence that this was conspiracy, not cock-up, and you'd be one very dead tiger."

He sniffed and his face took on a sneer. "If I were you, Seb, I'd make myself scarce for a while. Go visit one of the other offices, check up on our people; get out of town, if you know what is good for you. Because it is going to take just one more teensy mistake out of you, and I will dispense with your services- permanently. Really…" Moriarty sniffed and turned away, his frown taking on almost pantomime proportions "should just put a bullet through your head myself. Might do wonders to cheer me up, you never know."

Moran made a hasty exit, shutting the door behind him without saying another word.  _Tactical retreat is preferable to annihilation, in this battle scenario._


	25. Rehabilitation

"What happens next, Mycroft?" John was sitting across from Mycroft, who had taken Sherlock's leather chair. The British Government was sipping from a cup of tea. John had felt compelled to get the good china out; somehow one of their usual chipped mugs did not suit a man in a hand-tailored three piece suit.  _Culture clash_ . Sherlock didn’t seem to care what the tea came in, as long as it was made by someone else. In the difference between the two Holmes brothers, John found a tiny bit of humour to think about- anything to lighten the load of the last few days.

Mycroft put his cup down into the saucer. "Now that Sherlock is out of immediate post-operative care, it is possible to move him, so we will be taking him tonight to a secure government clinic. He will need time to recover. And there will be locks on the doors, and guards in the building to make sure he stays for the required duration."

Mycroft was scrutinising the doctor. John was used to Sherlock’s ability to deduce everything about him, so he assumed that his brother was equally capable of seeing that he'd clearly spent the last three nights recovering from the sleep deprived period when Sherlock went AWOL.

Whatever he saw, he gave John a slight smile. "Time to choose sides- again. His recovery process will be better if you are there with him. If you choose not to go, then he is more likely to resist any proper treatment- both physical and mental. And, I needn’t remind you that you are at risk, as well. Moriarty might try the same tethered goat strategy he used at the pool- so keeping you at liberty is dangerous. Sherlock will be calmer if he knows that you are safe.” He gave John another smile, which was slightly more convincing that Sherlock’s when they were both faking it. John knew he was being manipulated, so he supposed that was Mycroft’s concession- to make it obvious enough that even he would realise it.

The man in the three piece suit continued. “You know what they say- misery loves company. And if you are there keeping him from trying to escape, I will be able to get on with things, knowing that both of you are no longer at risk."

John contemplated the idea, and wondered how feasible it was. "You will have one hell of a time keeping him locked up, Mycroft. And you over-exaggerate my influence on him. Watching him bounce off the walls of a rehab clinic is just…well, it's hard to imagine it lasting any length of time, whether I'm there or not."

"There is no alternative, John. I meant it when I said that he has pushed me to the limits of what I can do. There will be…voices…. arguing that I have already been too lenient, too personally connected to Sherlock to be objective about his behaviour. I am not the only one to worry about a Holmes in Moriarty's camp. I have to be seen to be absolutely correct in my handling of this."

"What will _you_ be doing while we are out of circulation?" With that question, John realised he was answering Mycroft's request. It would not be easy, coping with Sherlock in this state. And, John knew that his patience with the detective's foibles would be tested to the limit when Sherlock was unable to work, bored out of his mind, in pain and being forced to deal with  _transport issues_. But, the idea of watching from afar as his best friend self-destructed on his own was even worse, so John was prepared to try. He looked the elder Holmes in the eye and said "You'd better take advantage of the time, or when Sherlock gets out we will be straight back at square one again."

Mycroft lifted his chin and gave one of his manufactured smiles. "It's time I tried to have a conversation of my own with James Moriarty, which I intend to do in the confines of one of her Majesty's more secure units."

"If it was that simple, then why the hell haven't you arrested him before now?" John was indignant.

"We haven't known enough about him until now, but thanks to Sherlock, I think I might be able to catch him. It may take a little while, but I am now very, very motivated. That said, _arresting_ him has never really been the problem; it's holding him for any length of time, being able to get anything incriminating out of him, and actually being able to prosecute him successfully that has always been the problem. Every one of the thirty two countries that have been investigating him has come up against the same barrier. He's helped others pervert the course of justice too many times; he has so many people in high places who owe him favours, or over whom he has some leverage, that until now no one has been willing to risk taking him on in open court."

"Are you saying that  _you're_  now ready to take that risk? Can't you just…I don't know, make him disappear once you have him in custody?"

Mycroft looked sternly at the doctor. "Contrary to contemporary television and film fantasies, the British Government does not condone assassination or murder. There is no ‘license to kill’ in the real world, John. Whatever I might think of the social merits of keeping a psychopath alive, the judicial process is what it is and even I cannot overturn it in such a public manner. Worse still, there will be people in high places that he will use to pressure me into releasing him. Furthermore, we have some idea of the contingency plans will have put into place if he were to be arrested. And if in the process of capture, he were to be fatally injured, well, I expect he will have a suitable revenge planned. One can hardly expect him to be unprepared for the possibility. The uncertainty of what would happen in those circumstances has always been his protection against all those governments, ours included, which would like to see an end to him."

"Then how can you be confident of winning, if you have to play by those rules?"

"John, this is…war. And I take it very personally now. I regret that my brother and you have been damaged by the crossfire of this early skirmish. With you both safe on the side lines, it's time for a full frontal assault, whatever the cost to me personally. I am the right person to do this, and I won't let Sherlock be caught up again in what should be my fight. Consider it a fortuitous combination of national security and personal need. If I can arrest Moriarty, however briefly, and at the same time expose those who are shielding him here in the UK, then I will be protecting Sherlock, as well as doing what I am paid to do."

Mycroft put his tea cup down. "This is my job, and it is time for me to do it." With that, the British Government got to his feet, collected his umbrella and went down the 17 steps out onto Baker Street where his car awaited him.

oENDo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This isn't the end. "Obviously", Sherlock says, rolling his eyes at the author's stupidity. The sequel, called Sidelines starts tomorrow.


End file.
